


Jigsaw

by drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Category: Justified
Genre: season 5 concurrent and post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 83,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4284330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Relationships, morality, justice - each is a puzzle with no straight edges.  Welcome to Tim's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another for the PDF crew. Take it with you. :)

* * *

"Boss, the folks downstairs want a revisit from that witness we brought in under subpoena for the..."

"Just give me the problem, Tim. I don't need the whole history."

There was some snark building, but Tim didn't give it air, settled for a drop of sarcasm in the tone. "Okay. It's that out-of-state dude that..."

"Christ, Tim, it's not like we've never had to chase down someone out-of-state before. You know the procedure. Just make the call, get it done."

Art didn't even look up.

So Tim didn't bother with another word of explanation, didn't bother reminding Art that this particular lowlife took six weeks of tracking through small town Georgia and into the mountains the last time the US Attorney's office issued a subpoena, didn't bother reminding him that it took two Deputy US Marshals and four members of the Georgia State Police to bring the witness in once they'd cornered him and that one of the staties ended up in the hospital, didn't bother mentioning that the federal government landed in a legal battle with the man's lawyer over the injuries he sustained during the delivery of the subpoena and that the charges brought against him at the time, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest, threatening a federal officer and possession of illegal firearms, were subsequently dropped. He did show up in court finally though as an unwilling witness for the prosecution in a case involving the shooting of a Kentucky game warden. His testimony was a stinking dumpster of perjury.

Tim eyed the blinding bald spot on Art's head, decided he also wouldn't bother his boss with the idea he had for delivering this subpoena this time since it wasn't well-received when Tim suggested it the last time.

Get it done. Alright. Fine. So he'd get it done. And no one had better complain about his methods.

Get it done. That's all he was hearing. That's all anyone was saying with tensions in the office running taut as a banjo string on an upright bass.

Get it done.

He turned and trudged back to his desk and picked up the phone, call waiting, spoke to the clerk in the US Attorney's office, hung up. Heywood Humphrey's face was taunting him, smirking up from the mugshot paperclipped to the folder Tim had open on his keyboard. He flicked the man's face right between the eyes then ran his finger down the arrest report until he found what he was looking for, the name of a hunting outfit in north Georgia. Picking up the phone again, he dialed the number and booked a guide for the weekend, requested him by name. He set the receiver down in the cradle and looked around the office thinking he really should take someone with him for this – it was procedure for confronting a man with a history of assaulting law enforcement officials – but after doing two visual circuits of the bullpen he huffed out a dismissal for the lot, a small explosion of frustration through his lips. He'd go alone. There was no one here he wanted to sit in a car with for four hours and that was just one half the trip.

It was blown all to shit this week, the easy feel of the job. It was like Mom and Dad fighting.

"Um, Raylan?" The office administrator was standing awkwardly in front of Raylan's desk. "The Chief wants to know if you plan on submitting any expenses for signature this month?"

Raylan looked pointedly at Art's office. "Nope."

"Okay, thanks," and she left awkwardly.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tim mumbled under his breath, then screamed it at the top of his lungs in his head, _oh, for fuck's sake,_ hoping to shake it out, shake it off. Instead, it stirred up a headache. _Fuck,_ he thought, calmer, digging in his drawer for some pain killers, swallowing four. He hated being the go-between, the push-pull between fighting parents. Tim was the only one in the office not playing this game, and he was going to continue not playing this game, not passing on messages until Art got _his_ message – _Tim don't play!_

At least it was Friday. He rubbed his neck, looked at the clock – 4:45pm. He couldn't think of any job small enough to fill the exact time left until five and he didn't want to start anything that might take longer than fifteen minutes, keep him here in this pressure cooker past his contractual obligation. He tucked the phone under his chin and shuffled some files, decided to look busy.

He turned to his right, studied Art sitting with his head down, pushing a pen across some paperwork. Art was definitely the dad – he had that dad thing down pat, that _if I ignore it all maybe it'll go away on its own_ thing. And though no one was talking about it, it was obvious to all that Art had let his frustration at Raylan out with a fist. Congratulations, but disappointing. It made it easy for Tim to draw the comparison with the only dad he had experience with growing up and it wasn't a flattering comparison.

And that left the mom role for Raylan. He fit it okay – more likely than Art to verbalize his discontent, strutting around the office acting like he had tapped into life's secrets while the rest of them were wandering without a clue and persecuting the enlightened. Fucking drama queen, still thinking it was better as a one-man show and no one could do it like him. He was chipping away at his own pedestal then passing Art the hammer to chip away at his.

What was it that guy, Sartre, said? – _Hell is other people._ Yep.

So just what had Raylan done? Tim really didn't give a fuck except that he was eating shit for it too. Clearly it was something bad – bad enough that Art wouldn't talk about it, bad enough that he barely acknowledged his senior deputy anymore except to send him orders through the rest of them. And if that wasn't enough to drive Tim to drink, Nelson was positively dancing around the office, no longer the underdog, turning stomachs with his sickly sweet overtures to Raylan just to hide his glee that the shit had finally come full circle. Fuck, it was annoying.

Tim's thoughts must've been powerful and directed. Nelson twitched like he'd felt the vibe, hopped up from his desk and skipped over to their end of the bullpen.

"Fuck," Tim breathed his current favorite word into the dead phone. "Here comes a motive for murder."

He said it loudly enough that Raylan heard, looked where Tim was looking and smirked in appreciation of the sarcasm.

"Hey, Raylan." Nelson smiled, gooey, generous in his new lofty position of second from the bottom. "A bunch of us are going for a beer. You want to come along?"

"Thanks for including me in your plans, Nelson," Tim said, unable to resist an opportunity to tease, and besides there was an awkward space crying to be filled as Raylan dug around for a good excuse to say no to the invitation. "A beer with Raylan, huh? Should warn you – better bring your credit card." He leaned back and enjoyed Nelson's discomfort.

A stammering apology followed. Raylan interrupted it. "Uh, maybe. You in, Tim?" He looked over the barrier with an invitation, an eyebrow salute for the timely entertainment.

A drink sounded good right now, but the company would sour the taste. Tim felt he needed a bit of distance and some perspective before he reacted to it all and did something stupid. He shook his head. "Nope. I don't drink. Gave it up for Lent."

"Bullshit," Raylan coughed into his hand. "Come for a drink, Tim. Nelson's paying."

"I'd rather go to an AA meeting, thanks." He snatched the Humphrey file from his desk and stood up, looking longingly at the hallway and the perspective that he hoped might be there waiting for him.

"Tell me, Tim, do you mean to be such a prick or is it accidental?"

The retort came with a glued-on grin. _"A true gentleman is one who is never unintentionally rude."_

"You must've stolen that line from somewhere – it's too literate for you."

"Oscar Wilde. According to him I'm a gentleman. Not so sure about you, Raylan. Gee, look at the time. Gotta go."

"Where're you off to in such a hurry?"

"My empty house. For once it's looking better than a bar."

The clock ticked over to five as he slipped between Raylan's desk and Nelson and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Rachel asked as he passed, stopping him with a wall of seniority. She didn't bother looking up either.

"Going to get 'er done…ma'am."

There was a warning on her face when she looked up.

"Subpoena." He tapped her computer screen with the file he was holding and said in a controlled monotone, "Odd word. I looked it up today procrastinating going to talk to Chris, our tech dick, about a problem I was having with my phone. You want to know what it means?" He didn't wait for a 'yes' or a 'no'. "It's Medieval Latin for 'under penalty,' first used around the fifteenth century. The fuller phrase 'subpoena duces tecum' means 'you shall bring with you under penalty.' 'Duces' is a conjugation of the Latin verb, 'ducere', meaning 'to bring' – that's second person future indicative – and 'tecum' is 'with you.'" He paused to let her digest the information. "We should update it, don't you think? Something like – 'Get your fucking ass down to court now or we'll put you behind bars.' That might be too long..."

Rachel looked like she wanted to put Tim's eye out with the pen she was holding. She put a hand on her forehead, effectively blocking Tim from view, and focused back on the paper on her desk. "Just get it done."

"Yes, ma'am."

He stood a moment watching her until she felt it, looked back up.

"Tim, not today."

He shrugged. "No one's interested in etymology anymore." He got a huff from her, turned and slipped out of the office.

There was a group gathered waiting for the elevator, he swung wide of them, ignoring another invitation for drinks, and took the stairs to the basement. A bare nod to the security guard at the door and he was gone, outside, the air a little crisp, bracing, the sun low and bright, out to the parking lot and into his truck, the headache already retreating as he settled behind the wheel and shut the door. He was never so happy to be alone.

"Halle- _fucking-_ lujah."

He stretched the word out turning the engine over, let the truck idle and skipped through his playlist for something loud and aggressive. Finding a good track, he cranked up the volume, put the truck in gear and drove sedately out of the parking lot and cruised home.

* * *

He was steering his truck through his neighborhood less than five minutes later, an older part of the city, workers' houses on the wrong side of the tracks that the gentrifiers thankfully hadn't bothered with, cheap, rough. Tim had found a nice apartment right downtown when he first got the assignment to Lexington, but he hated feeling caged, didn't want to live too far out of the bustle either though, so settled for renting this small semi-detached a short drive from the court house. It came with an easy but negligent landlord. And the neighbor was quiet. She lived alone too – there was a boyfriend but he moved out shortly after Tim moved in. They'd say hi when their paths crossed, toss a word or two occasionally between the yards, reminders for garbage pick-up, complaints about the weather. She always smiled, didn't matter the day.

She wasn't his type. She rode a bicycle everywhere, even in the snow, and had more tattoos than he did. He had her pegged as a soft-hearted, left-leaning, free-spirited innocent, the kind to keep crystals in her living room to increase the energy of her chakra or whatever the fuck, probably drank herbal tea. He didn't give her much thought except to admire her back when she wore those strappy tops in the warm weather. She had a nice back, smooth and enticing with a spider on a web tattooed on her right shoulder blade. It was the only spider he'd ever had an urge to touch. Shame she wasn't his type.

She was wearing one those strappy tops this evening, probably why he decided to be chivalrous. It wasn't warm enough for a strappy top but the argument she was having with her ex on the front step was clearly hot enough to keep the evening chill from affecting her. The stiff line of her back told Tim everything. She'd stepped outside her door to have it out with him, keep the ex from stepping in.

They both looked over when Tim pulled into his driveway, the bass notes from the speakers booming, announcing his arrival even with the windows up. He directed a hard look over at her visitor, shut off the truck, got out, leaned against the open door and waited for a reaction.

"Is there something I can do for you?" The ex sent the empty snarl and bark across the yard, tired of the unwanted scrutiny.

Work was still hanging on Tim and he kept it there for this. "Nope. I'm fine. Thanks for asking." He held the man's angry gaze for a second or two past casual then switched over to her. "Jo," a pointed look, "anything I can do for you?"

She brushed off his concerns, rolling her eyes straight up. "Keep that Friday beer you promised me cold. I need it tonight. I'll be over in a minute."

"No problem," he said, playing along, then added, though for the life of him he had no idea why, "I'll order the pizza. The usual?"

She nodded.

"Okay. See you in five."

"Alright."

Tim turned and reached into the cab for his back-up weapon that he'd set on the console when he left the courthouse, then, standing so the ex could see what he was doing, he dropped the magazine and made a show of checking it, slipped it back into place and slid the gun into the waist of his jeans, closed and locked his truck and walked into his house.

He stood just inside, waiting. The slam of a car door, an engine turning over, a bit of tire tread left on the asphalt was his signal that he wasn't needed anymore. He smirked, kicked off his boots and went to the kitchen for a beer. The doorbell rang while he was rooting through the refrigerator hoping for some inspiration for dinner. Slamming the door closed he went to see what she wanted.

Jo had covered her back with a warm and wrinkled flannel shirt. A little bounce, a helpless grin, an uncertain finger wave, and she said, "Thanks – that got rid of him in a hurry. Is that gun real?"

"Yep."

She didn't turn to leave. Maybe she wanted reassurance that he was going to be here if the ex came back. She couldn't have been serious about the beer.

He hinted, said, "You let me know if he shows up again."

A finger reached across the space between them and poked him. "Where's the beer you promised?"

"I didn't," Tim pointed out, looking down at the arm linking them, the tattoo wrapped around the wrist. "That was you that said that…about the beer."

"Maybe." She smiled again, undeterred. "Did you already order the pizza or do I get a say on the toppings?"

She took a step closer and he took a step back, a reaction. She took it as an invitation and slipped past him into his house.

Flustered, he couldn't come up with something appropriately rude to say, could only watch, irritated, while she toed off her runners and peered around his place curiously. He resigned himself to company and pizza and the fact that he'd be forced to order a vegetarian special on thin whole wheat crust with fucking soy cheese. The day just wouldn't end fast enough.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

His eyes were drawn to her hands as she shoveled the last piece of a meat-lover's special with extra cheese into her mouth and licked her fingers. They were a mess – the nails short, broken, the knuckles covered in scrapes, cuts, rough and dry. The pizza was her surprise choice, blowing his stereotyping to shit, and he split it with her and they drank beer and she talked about her ex and how he was back trying to make up with her only for the convenience of a place to stay. He'd gambled away his paycheck again.

"Sounds like a winner," said Tim, wishing he'd ordered two pizzas or some wings or something. The girl could eat.

"God, I could eat more." She wiped her hands on her jeans and stared into the empty box. "I have some leftover fried chicken in my fridge. You want me to get it?"

"Yeah, sure. I've got a frozen pie thing."

"Homemade?"

He stared. "You're joking, right?"

"Get it out. I'll be right back." She stood up and loped to the door.

"You need me to come with you?" Tim pointed outside. "In case, you know…"

"It must be tough being a gentleman all the time," she said.

"If I was a gentleman, I'd have challenged him to pistols at dawn."

"I think you're serious."

"Maybe."

"I'm pretty sure I can handle my ex without anyone getting shot, thanks. Really, he's…" She threw her arms out, at a loss to describe him.

"Lame?"

"Yeah, lame. Get that pie out. I was on a job today that had to get finished before the weekend. I worked through lunch and I only had a donut for breakfast and then nothing but coffee." She spun her hands like a gerbil on a wheel, "I'm a little wound up," and skipped out.

Tim made coffee – he felt he needed some to keep up – poured a glass of bourbon while he waited for the caffeine boost to finish brewing. He meant to drink the whiskey in the time it took her to get back but she was faster than he anticipated, had come in so quietly he didn't hear her. She was standing at the entrance to the kitchen holding a plate of chicken and watching silently while he tipped the glass up, downing the last of it, a practiced and efficient move. He set the glass down on the counter, slid it over beside the bottle, turned and saw her.

"Wow. Jaded?" Her eyes lingered on the glass. "You made that look easy."

"Practice."

She chewed the inside of her lip. "Why do you have a gun? I mean…why do you carry a gun?"

"I live alone for a reason," he said, a vague reply, and by the expression on her face he figured she was trying to puzzle out if it was an answer or a brush off.

He decided to help her. "I'm a Federal Marshal." He slipped his ID out of his pocket and held it up for her to look at then tossed it onto the counter beside the empty glass.

"Oh. You're a cop? I did _not_ have you pegged as a cop. I figured you for a contractor or something with that truck. Definitely an outdoor job – maybe a surveyor or a dog walker, maybe a serial killer." Her eyes widened, working to get a laugh.

"This is why I live alone," he said in a voice flatter than three-day-old beer in a glass. "Microwave." He pointed behind her.

She turned and put the plate in, turned it on, turned back. "So, what's it like being a cop?"

Tim poured himself another glass of whiskey, shook the bottle to show he'd share. She shook her head.

"I wouldn't know. I'm not a cop. I'm a Deputy with the US Marshals Service – we do court work. We don't arrest people and solve crimes. Well, sort of, sometimes we do, I guess. Well, we do arrest people."

"And you need a gun."

It was a statement but a question too, the way she said it. It was a funny thing to ask – after all this was the state of Kentucky and he was in law enforcement – but it made him consider the fuller implication and he decided that, yeah, _he_ needed a gun. "It's a job requirement," he hedged, sipping his second glass of whiskey. "What do you do? Your hands… They're a fucking disaster."

"I'm a meth cooker."

He choked; she laughed, abrupt and open.

" _Kidding._ I'm a tiler. It's hands-on work and I always get stuck doing the finicky bits. It's hard with gloves on to cut the small pieces and I do the finishing work since I'm always the only girl on the jobsite. Apparently girls are better at it." She didn't sound like she believed the statement. She held up her hands so he could admire them. "Glamorous, huh? Grouting is killer. I get lots of cuts from the tile edges."

"Yeah, glamorous. Knee pads?"

"Handcuffs?"

He ducked his head, embarrassed, and the microwave pinged, rescuing him from the conversation.

They finished off the chicken and ate most of the apple pie and drank coffee and she spun like a top for another hour and then fell asleep on his couch, like someone had turned off the switch, just like that, out cold. He left her talking, found her asleep when he came back from the kitchen with two fresh opened beers in his hands, one for her. Wondering what to do about his unwanted guest, he stood looking down at her then sighed quietly, tiptoed the last few feet to his chair, got comfortable and drank both cans of beer, one after the other, and watched the news with the volume turned down low.

Shortly after midnight, a car pulled up and there was a knock on her door, someone whispering her name in a shout, "Josephine, open up. I want to talk to you."

Tim slipped a gun into the back of his jeans and walked outside in his socks to investigate. He was glad he'd changed into an old beat-up t-shirt that showed off a couple of tattoos and some muscle.

"Hey, loser," he said to the shadow on her step.

The ex backed up to see around the post of the small stoop. "What the fuck do you want? Go mind your own business."

Tim closed his door quietly and walked to hers. "Look, it's late. Go away. Don't come back here anymore. She doesn't want you here and I sure don't want you here."

"You sleeping with her?"

It was a pretense of macho hydrant pissing.

Tim folded his arms. "She's not my type. You, though, you might be."

"You a faggot?"

"If I was I hope I'd have better taste than to be sniffing around you. I'm a Deputy US Marshal," said Tim, wondering if the world would ever let him have some time off. "I run your name, would I find any outstanding warrants? Your face looks familiar. Maybe I've seen it on the back of a milk carton. Did you run away from your mama recently? Or, I dunno, get involved in something illegal, some gambling maybe? You in trouble? If you are, you definitely stay away from her."

"Fuck you."

Tim smiled, kept an eye on him while he slunk past, made a note of the license plate number when the car peeled out for the second time that night.

Jo was standing dazed in the living room when he went back in.

"Wow, it's late. I'd better go," she said. "Sorry I fell asleep. Sorry about the doofus."

He waited with his door open until she was inside her house and he heard the lock turn then he went to his kitchen, poured another whiskey and sat on the front steps enjoying the dark. The shivering finally moved him inside and up to bed.

* * *

Awake before the alarm, Tim made coffee and packed a bag and his rifle and loaded up his truck. The sun wasn't up yet when he filled his thermos and finally tied up the laces on his boots, ready to go. She was pushing her bike out the front door and locking up just as he was.

"Where are you off to at this hour on a Saturday?" she asked, voice quiet and early-morning gravelly.

"Meeting somebody to go hunting."

Her reaction wasn't exactly disapproval, but something, maybe unwanted surprise. "Hunting?"

The words started forming behind his lips, sarcastic poetry about the rush of a good hunt, the silence intense, tricks played by sunlight or moonlight or night-vision, mirages from the heat or cold fingers on a trigger, a target in the cross-hairs. But he bit it all back – it was too early in the morning or maybe it was her. There was just no good reason to be mean to her. "It's for work. I have to deliver a subpoena. The guy's hard to track down."

"Oh, so you're hunting _him_. Not _hunting_ , hunting."

He moved the conversation along. "Where are you going at four-thirty in the morning?"

Her face lit up. "I have another job. It doesn't pay as well but I like it more. I have to fit the work in when I can. Maybe you could come by and see sometime…what I do."

"Yeah, sure."

"So where do you have to go to find this guy that you have to leave so early?"

"Georgia. Hopefully it won't take long. I should be back tomorrow."

"You've got a weird job." She hesitated, the door locked, her front tire resting on the next step down. "Um…"

"Hey, if doofus gives you any trouble while I'm gone, call me." He dug around in his pocket and handed her a bent card.

"And what can you do about it from Georgia, Sir Lancelot?"

That dragged a chuckle from him. "Make a call."

"Send in the reserves?"

"Something like that."

"Thanks, but I'm sure I'll be fine. He really is a doofus." She slipped the card into a pocket on her knapsack, smiled back at him, started humming, then singing, settled her pack on her back and pedaled away down the street.

He recognized the song, _Georgia on My Mind,_ kept listening for it – she did it proud. "Put a light on that bike," he called after her when he couldn't hear it anymore.

She lifted a hand briefly, waved, tucked her head down under her arm to look back.

"And fucking watch where you're going," he said more quietly. "You idiot."

* * *

Tim peered through the cross-hairs at a large buck standing in a camouflage of light at the edge of a clearing, its hide unevenly speckled, shadows from the branches above. The animal bowed its head, pushing the debris on the forest floor away from something tender and edible, unaware of the finger on the trigger of a rifle over a quarter mile away.

"I can get you closer. It must be over four hundred yards, maybe more."

Squinting against the sunlight, Tim did an estimate, battle experience. "I'd say about six-fifty."

"This is way too hard a shot on this rise, though we're lucky we got a clear line. You want me to try it? Or we can skirt around and get closer. Probably get you to two hundred yards or so if we're quiet and he don't take off first. How good a shot are you?"

"I don't want a hundred and fifty pounds of deer meat," said Tim, turning away from the scope and rubbing his eye. "I haven't even got a freezer."

"Then why the fuck are we out here? Hell, I'll take the meat. Me and the boys at the hunting shop'll split it. I'll drop my price for the day in half if you can get me that set of antlers."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Tim set back up, tucking the rifle against his shoulder, eyeing his target, working the numbers for the shot in his head. He waited a heartbeat or two just to enjoy the anticipation, the familiarity in the moment. The hardness of the stock on his cheek, the smell of the gun, he could feel the chinstrap rubbing grit and stubble against skin, the armor and the cammies and the gloves bulky and constricting like swaddling, boots tight up the ankles, a buddy to his right, chattering numbers and obscenities with equal emphasis in a dry tone, another behind him shifting in the dirt, a feeling of belonging and purpose within a framework of no belonging and no purpose, and mostly, mostly, the humanity everywhere, base, overwhelming, inescapable. More than memories, it was a part of him. The sensations were tantalizing, real. He relaxed into them, sighed, squeezed off a round. The buck had dropped by the time his scope settled back.

"Sweet Jesus! That was one hell of a shot. I think you took it bang on, bulls-eyed that motherfucker right through the head. Holy shit – he just fucking dropped."

He was up and moving, a big man, Tim's guide, Heywood Humphrey, well over six feet and solid, taking one long stride for every two from Tim, forcing him to jog a little to keep up as they covered the ground to get to their trophy.

"Damn, I can't believe you made that shot. So was that lucky or are you that fucking good?"

"I've shot some." Tim played it down, a bite of melancholy for what it all brought with it.

"Yeah, no shit."

* * *

The story of his kill got him invited for a beer after lunch. The group of locals pandering to city-folk willing to pay for a day's worth of Survivor Man usually didn't keep up the pretense of friendly after the job was done but they were happy for the deer meat and the nice set of antlers to add to the roadhouse collection. It was worth the price of a beer to satisfy their curiosity about the visitor with the old rifle and the six-hundred-plus yard perfect shot.

"I should get going," said Tim after two beers and a sandwich. "I'm meeting a friend in Atlanta for dinner." He fished around in his pocket for some cash, counted out some for the late lunch, some to pay Heywood for his services. "What do I owe you?"

When Heywood looked up and saw Tim's hand extended he put his own out without thinking and Tim slapped the money and the subpoena into the outstretched palm.

"Mr. Heywood Humphrey, you've just been served a subpoena to appear in court in Lexington on the date stated with the items listed. Failure to appear could result in charges being laid against you. Come say hi. I work upstairs there at the Federal Court House."

Tim dropped some more cash on the table and stood up.

"You fucker." Reality was creeping up on Heywood, slowly catching on to what just happened. "You fucker." He stood up too, dwarfing Tim, his size intimidating. "Do you know what happened to the last bunch of fuckers that tried to give me one of these?"

"Yep. If I remember the details of the report correctly there were six of them that cornered you and you didn't make it easy, put one in the hospital all for a piece of paper. Keep in mind, there's only me this time."

Tim said it like he'd scored a point; Heywood didn't think he had though.

"That's right. There's only you."

"I guess I gotta explain it. Heywood, that means your lawyer won't be able to pull the abuse bullshit if I decide there's a reason to lay charges against you – something like, say, assaulting a federal officer, or even just threatening a federal officer would do it." Tim looked up to the ceiling, said, "God grant me the opportunity."

"You'd have to be able to sign that arrest sheet."

"Yeah, you broke that State Police officer's arm, didn't you?" Tim cocked his head to the side. "I'm ambidextrous – my scribble is just as illegible with my left hand or my right. And I'm just as good a shot with a rifle or a handgun." He raised his shirt showing off a bit of a Glock. "And in case you're getting any ideas, I should warn you, I got my truck loaded with toys that I'd be happy to bring out and demonstrate. We could play all day." The eyebrows went up, an exclamation mark added to the sentence. "I'll be back with a warrant and some handcuffs if you don't service that subpoena." Tim paused for a reaction, and getting none he turned his back, collected his jacket and walked out.

It was all posturing. If Heywood and his friends had decided to make it hard, Tim wouldn't have been able to do much about it, likely would've ended up in the hospital like the Statie. It didn't help his mood any as he considered that fact, that all he needed was a little snorting and foot-stomping, some flashing of bright feathers to avert the violence. It made him wonder what all the shit he saw in Afghanistan was about, what drove people to do the things he saw done there. It did his head in thinking about it, made him angry and he wished while he walked across the gravel parking lot that he might hear the door to the roadhouse slam open, some angry words calling him back, that the men inside might realize that it was all smoke and hot air and come out here and make him run the gauntlet to his truck, earn the day. He settled behind the wheel and stared at the building, waiting for it. Disappointed and relieved in equal measure, he turned over the engine, backed out and headed to Atlanta. He really did have plans for dinner.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

There weren't many people Tim felt comfortable with, not many for whom he would peek out from behind his fortifications and share a bit of himself. Mostly he put it up and hid behind it, his body armor of efficiency and sarcasm, everything funny and done. Max was one of the few, occupying the same space, a fellow stranger, another expatriate from the nation of mankind. Max, Edward Maxwell, had seen Tim clearly from the beginning. Maybe it was the circumstances under which they met, maybe it was the age difference, maybe it was the similarities of their experiences.

Max was a Vietnam War veteran, infantry like Tim, old enough to be his grandfather if all the generations between had started young, been less careful. The night they met, Tim had tried to crawl from the bar he and his buddies had closed back to the cheap hotel in Atlanta where they had rented a room on a weekend off base before heading back to his battalion after training – he had tried but didn't make it, got separated somehow, maybe when he passed out in a haze of beer and whiskey underneath an expressway. He woke up to Max's face.

"What're you doing, kid? Shit, I got you covered but you can't sleep now. Not here. This place is crawling with gooks. It ain't safe."

Max had found him, sat vigil, kept a few curious drifters looking to ransack pockets away while Tim slept off the worst of his drunk then finally managed to wake him and get him moving. "You need food, kid. You gotta eat if you're gonna drink that much. Life's shit will still be there too, when you're sober again so you might as well hang on to your money for breakfast."

By the smell of his breath, Tim figured the man knew what he was talking about. The situation was amusing despite the skull-splitting headache and the mouth that felt like he'd been sucking up the ground of the Badwater Basin in Death Valley, so Tim introduced himself and gamely bought them both a meal at an all-night spot that wasn't choosy about clientele. They talked until dawn, easy, unguarded, hung-over, then shared a bottle and watched the sun come up over the concrete. Max might wander into crazy town once in a while but he was the one person in Tim's life that made him feel like he wasn't completely out of rhythm with the world. Sober, Max was a sharp studier of human nature and a clean, head-on view of reality, and drunk, he was the hair of the dog for Tim's hangover with life. It became a tradition – that diner, breakfast, lunch or dinner, and some bare and raw company whenever Tim could get to Atlanta.

"You need a new sleeping bag, Max. That one's getting worn out."

"You need to move on, Tim, this life of yours is getting worn out. I can see it on your face. As for the sleeping bag, well, it's been a bad winter here. I've had some fights over it, lived in it straight for days during that storm."

"Been a bad winter all over. And my life's just fine, thanks. What the fuck do you know about moving on, anyway?"

"I know, 'cause I couldn't. It's given me some intimate knowledge of the problem."

"Yeah, okay, so you're the expert. How exactly do you suggest I move on?"

"Fuck if I know. Look at me. I live in a cardboard box. You gonna take advice from a guy who lives in a cardboard box?"

It hurt Tim to hear it. He fooled himself most days that Max was fine, that Max was someone who was on top of what made the world spin. He twitched something like a smile. "Let's get something to eat, buddy. We can find a store open in the morning and get you some supplies."

"I need some new boots. These ones have a hole." He lifted a foot and showed Tim.

"I just got new ones. I gotta warn you – it's hard to find real leather anymore. We'll look though."

Max had a few regular spots that he called home and Tim had found him this trip without too much trouble. He helped him camouflage his belongings in some neglected grass under an off-ramp then took him for a late dinner or early breakfast depending on where you started counting time from and listened to the street news.

"I haven't seen Phil in a while. I think maybe the gooks got him. He hasn't reported in."

"Maybe," said Tim. "I'm sorry to hear it. You trust him."

"I gave him my old jacket."

"You told me you lost it."

"I needed you to get me another one."

"For fuck's sake, you could've just said."

Max looked up sheepishly, slyly. "Yeah, well. Phil doesn't look after himself. He's a crazy alcoholic."

"Uh-huh." Tim smiled.

"Shit, I'm crazy alcoholic."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't you get that way."

"I'll never be crazy, Max. That's half my problem – I'm too fucking sane. Did you check for Phil at the hospitals?"

"No. Do you think he might be there?"

Tim thought it more likely he'd be at the city morgue. "What's his full name? I'll look into it." He pulled out a small notepad and a pen and wrote down the information.

"O'Connor or O'Reilly or something. Something with an 'O'."

"Okay."

"I said an 'O'."

"That is an 'O'."

"I hope you can read that later."

Tim made a face, flipped the notepad closed and hid it back in his jacket pocket.

Max leaned across the table then, said in an alcohol-laced whisper, "There's a gook working the streets here, picking us off."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I hear he's been around, not just Atlanta. Some guy I met up from Orlando, he told us about him. He sneaks up close, gets real personal. I hear they find the bodies like we used to back in 'Nam, bits cut off and fed to 'em." Max opened his mouth wide and brought his hand up like he was stuffing something in, decided it was a good idea and picked up some toast and took a bite. Setting the food down, he looked cautiously around the diner then slid a long knife out from under the table, from under his clothes somewhere. "I got this, just in case."

"Jesus, Max, put that away. I don't want to get kicked out. I haven't had my second coffee yet and I'm gonna need it if we're gonna sit up talking all night."

"You gonna stay a bit?"

"I have to take off by lunch tomorrow, but, yeah, till then."

"Maybe I can get some sleep. Can you take watch?"

Tim looked closely but it was hard to tell with Max if he were serious or not. It wasn't like him to stay in crazy town, just drift in and out, mostly out. Life on the streets was hard on people, they always looked tired and Max was no different – and no different from the last time Tim saw him, same dirt, same blood-shot whites and worn features. Tim pulled out the map for crazy town and got his bearings.

"Sure I can take watch, buddy. We're on fifty percent, right? Hey, I got an idea. Why don't I get a room at that place up the street? You can have a shower and sleep on a bed for a change. I got you some new clothes."

"Great. It's ours, the hotel?"

"It's ours. Well behind the lines."

"Alright then." Max whooped loudly and turned a few heads.

They ate and talked then walked down to the hotel and Tim paid for a room. Max slept on the bed and Tim dozed in a chair. The next morning he left Max snoring and went to the nearest Package store and bought some cheap whiskey, stopped at an army surplus outlet and picked out a good sleeping bag and some boots, topped up the purchases with some MREs. He was at the cash before he decided on one more item, left the disgruntled clerk standing there while he picked out a good hunting knife, one that would fold up for safe-keeping.

Max was up when he got back. Tim bought some fresh food for breakfast and they shared it. They argued about a phone but Tim finally convinced Max to take one, just in case.

"It'll probably go missing the first week."

"Then hide it."

Max grumbled more when Tim tried to convince him to trade knives for the new one – he liked the lethal look of the long one better – but he agreed when Tim showed him how easy the new one was to hide and to open. They parted on the street and Tim headed for home, north up to Lexington.

* * *

He discovered her by accident; he didn't go looking.

Monday at work started out no better than Friday, tensions high. Tim volunteered to interview a guest at the Fayette County Detention Center, a lead on a wanted fugitive, just to get out from the high-pressure system that seemed only to be affecting the Lexington Marshals office. Around lunch time he jumped at the chance to run some records across the street to an attorney at the District Court House, Art eyeing him like he could see right through to the motivation and wishing he could escape too. Tim took the short way over, jaywalking, and the long way back, moving away from the court houses and over to North Mill Street to get something to eat. He ordered a sandwich at a deli and leaned against the counter waiting, trying not to look too awkward among the suits and the regular people who wore civilization comfortably. He changed his mind about sitting at a table, got his food to go. It wasn't a sunny or particularly warm day but he was more easy outside away from the crowds, understood why Max never gave it up. He meandered till he found a bench and sat down to eat.

She was working across the street, up a ladder tiling a mosaic above a business in the middle of renovations. The words _Starry Night Café_ were already in place, pieced together in golds and oranges and yellows, and she was filling in the space around them with more bits of tile, bright and reflective, vibrant, individual jewels in a palette from sky blue and gray to deep indigo. There was a lot left to do and it seemed like painstaking work, each piece tiny, no more than an inch square.

So this was her job – or more likely her _other_ job. Tim watched her work while he finished his sandwich then stood up, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth then his palms on his jeans and wandered over to take a closer look.

He stood beside the ladder and peered up at her. "Hey, Jo."

She turned singing, _"Where you goin' with that gun in your hand?"_

"What? I'm working. It's holstered."

"Hendrix," she said, "Duh." She sang again. " _Hey, Joe, where you goin' with that gun in your hand?"_ added some da-do-da-do guitar parts.

"Right." He knew the song, chuckled, embarrassed.

She smiled, tilted her head. "What are you doing here?"

Tim pointed down the street in the direction of work. "Court house."

"Of course. Lunch break?"

He nodded, though she had turned away and was coming down the ladder and missed it.

"Starry Night Café, huh?" He tipped his head to the business next door. "Right beside the Kentucky Moon Bar."

"Street theme, maybe. Have you eaten?"

He nodded again. She saw it this time.

"Well, since you're here, would you mind watching my stuff, just for a minute while I get a sandwich?"

"I'll get you a sandwich. I want a coffee anyway. What do you feel like?"

"Um, anything good, kind sir."

"Alright."

He headed back to the deli wondering if she was making fun of him, bought her something with lots of meat and cheese on it and she seemed happy with it. They sat on Tim's bench while she ate, explaining what she was doing as she chewed, talking with her mouth full, enthusiastic. She'd cover her lack of manners with her hand and look sideways at him apologetically but continue anyway.

"I love doing mosaics. They're like puzzles only better. The glass is a bitch to work with but it reflects the light. Pops more than ceramic or marble."

"I don't know how you've got the patience for it. It looks like a shitload of work. I get why you end up doing the finicky bits on the jobsites."

"Not many businesses are willing to fork out the money for art like this. Even the glass is expensive. I'm not making a penny for my time." She shrugged helplessly at her obsession. "What I'm getting barely covers the cost of the materials. That's why I do regular tiling work. It pays the bills."

Tim had been picking through the boxes of tesserae while she cleaned up before eating, the colorful glass pieces begging to be touched and admired. He still had one in his hand, a small square of pale yellow, when they crossed the road to sit on the bench. He held it up but there was no sun today to show it off.

"What's this color for?"

"The stars."

"Stars mostly aren't yellow, you know."

"You sound like my grade school teacher. 'Josephine, cows aren't purple!' What did she know? Had she seen _every_ cow in the world? Besides, van Gogh painted his stars yellow, and if it's good enough for him…"

"Well, our star is yellow, I guess," he said, trying to take back his criticism.

"Yes, it is." Jo looked up and squinted at the clouds. "Now, if it would only show itself. My hands just won't get warm today."

He looked down at them resting on her lap. She was picking at the thinset that had hardened on her fingers.

* * *

Art was digging through the top drawer of Tim's desk when he walked back in from lunch. The Chief saw him, cheekily popped a mint from Tim's stash.

"Hey!" said Tim, indignant, stopping just past Rachel. "What d'you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm abusing my position of authority." Art planted his hands on his hips. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Now I know where they all disappear to," Tim grumbled walking closer, a good glare for his boss. He crossed his arms with a huff, acting the part, but he didn't really mind. Art was generous with his treats.

"Could you get the ones in the green package next time?" Art pointed to the color on the wrapper. "Spearmint, I think. I like those better."

"That was all they had."

"Oh, too bad."

"Does this mean I get to help myself to what's in your desk?"

"No." Art wagged the package of mints until Tim held out his hand, dropped it into Tim's palm then sauntered past, grinning, and into his office.

Tim followed him with his eyes, narrowed them menacingly, but Art didn't look too concerned.

"Nice lunch?"

A soft voice touched his back and Tim turned. Rachel was smiling, a warmness there that had been missing lately, especially around her eyes.

"Yes, thank you. I sat on a bench and had a sandwich. What's different in here?" He turned in a circle looking for some furniture out of place. "Did Art redecorate or something while I was gone?"

"Raylan has decided to take some holiday time. And now that the entire morning has passed without him showing up to work anyway, I think Art is finally convinced that Raylan _really is_ taking some holiday time. He's been out of his cave twice in the last hour and he's not scowling."

"Huh. That must be it. I thought maybe he'd had the place painted and I didn't notice."

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

The yellow square of glass was still in his pocket. Tim found it when he pulled out his keys the next morning and dumped them on his desk, the yellow falling out with them, a piece of the universe, an earthbound star. He turned it over and over, playing it between his fingers while he made a few calls to the hospitals in downtown Atlanta, using his title, Deputy Marshal Gutterson, to get something beyond a cursory check of patient records for a homeless man named Phil O'Connor, O'Reilly, O'Sullivan. He spent an hour on it before anyone else arrived for work, got nothing, then got down to business. He decided to leave calling the morgue until later.

Art was back to scowling. Everyone avoided him, accepting tasks without complaint and getting out of the office whenever possible. "Duck and run!" – Tim would yell every time someone grabbed a jacket and wallet and made for the door. A few of the braver souls would chuckle, most didn't dare.

Art summoned Tim with a finger snap around ten, motioned him to the conference room with Rachel.

"I want you both on this," he said, laying out a fresh bulletin and some papers. "These two are dangerous – shot and killed a trooper in upstate New York. One's got family in this area so we're on a list of possible destinations. I need you to follow up."

"Possible destinations? In other words it's a long shot they're even coming through here," said Tim, walking himself through the information provided. "Kentucky from New York?"

"This is a priority from Washington. You want to have that discussion with them?"

Tim made a show of checking his watch. "If I leave now, I might be able to catch the director before she heads home." He kept his face neutral, only a small tilt of his head to let Art know he was joking.

Any other week he'd get something out of Art – something like "Don't feel you have to hurry back," or "I'll call ahead and let them know you're coming to offer some suggestions on how to improve the running of the US Marshals Service. I'm sure they'll be happy to see you." But today Art just worked more at his scowl. Tim sighed.

Rachel's idea of damage control was volunteering herself and Tim to do the bullet inventory that Raylan never did get around to.

"We can have it done by lunch, Chief, and Tim's right, this is a long shot." She tapped the bulletin. "We can cover the contacts listed in less than an hour. We've got time."

Art considered the offer, nodded.

Tim opened his mouth to complain, got out the words, "Maybe if…" in a suitably sarcastic tone before Rachel threatened to cut his balls off right there at the conference room table if he said another word. Even Art looked afraid.

* * *

"I can't believe you said that to me."

Out in the hall, Tim tried his best to look shocked and hurt but Rachel wasn't buying it. She scowled almost as well as Art, waited until the elevator doors were closed to ask him what exactly it was he'd planned to say back in the meeting.

"I was just going to point out that we'd have fewer bullets to count if Art would just shoot Raylan and get it over with. He wants to, you can tell. Maybe I'd help him and knock a few more off the total."

"Oh, that would've gone over real well." She turned to face him. "What's your problem? Do you have to stick your foot in it every time?"

"My problem is it's _not_ my problem but everyone's making it my problem."

"These problems are part of your job."

"Really? Show me where it is in my job description that I gotta deal with the lovers' quarrel between my boss and his senior deputy."

"So ask for a transfer."

"I did."

It was Rachel's turn to look shocked, a little hurt too. "You did?"

"Art said no. He said he might be short soon, so could I please wait."

Tim had to give her a nudge out of the elevator when it stopped in the basement, doors open. Normally Rachel did everything at a bustling pace so her slow funeral march down the hall to the storage room was disconcerting.

"What?" said Tim finally, "What did I say this time?"

"I'm sorry you feel you had to ask for a transfer."

"I don't want to have to deal with Raylan's shit anymore. I got enough of my own to deal with. If I go, it's got nothing to do with you."

"I know." She was quiet again, stopped dead this time in the hallway. "If Art doesn't want you transferring, it's because he's already planning on transferring Raylan out."

"Well, that'd be one way to solve the problem."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Getting stuck doing bullet inventory bothers me. Honestly, at this point, I don't care how they solve it – I'd be happy if they'd just kiss and make up – but nothing I think or say or do is going to make any difference about it. Raylan's always done whatever the hell Raylan wants, and Art's my boss. I got no leverage here. So I might just as well say what's on my mind if I'm stuck in the middle of it." He took the keys from her and unlocked the door, held it open and waved her in. "Why don't you come with me? I'm thinking Hawaii sounds nice. Maybe the Honolulu office has a couple of spots open. You like surfing?"

Rachel's lip twitched and she chuckled finally, relaxing a little down in the basement out of view. "Hawaii does sound nice, but I don't know about seeing your skinny white ass in a swim suit."

"I'll get me one of those Speedos."

"Oh, God."

Tim stood in the middle of the room and surveyed the mess of boxes. "Why don't we just guess at the numbers? This is going to take hours."

"Your attitude, Tim, sucks."

"Right now, this job sucks."

"Amen to that."

* * *

A few hours later Tim was carefully lining up the last of the bullets into an open box.

"So that's 197 rounds I can use to shoot somebody in the face with that Remington 870 we got."

Rachel jotted the final number on her clipboard, shook her head. "Tim, do I need to report you and your gun fantasies to HR, get you put behind a desk for a while?"

"Only if I were likely to indulge in an _indiscriminate_ shooting spree. Could be a mistake though, assigning me desk duty if all my violent daydreaming involved a particular target…or two."

"Does it?"

"Maybe. I'm just saying, it might backfire when you consider how my desk is situated – right between Raylan and Art. You might just be handing me an opportunity to fulfill my homicidal fantasies."

"Are we done?" she asked, still shaking her head.

"We are done." Tim closed up the last box and set it neatly in its place. "I've got a sudden itch to visit a shooting range."

"How about a coffee shop and some lunch."

"I don't think I can fire off a box of rounds in a coffee shop."

"If you'd rather go straight back upstairs…"

"Lunch sounds good."

* * *

The afternoon was already planned out in Tim's head – a short conversation with the Atlanta city morgue and then some exploratory calls for the pair of fugitives wanted under federal warrant for murder one and grand theft auto. It sounded like the game to him, only playing for keeps.

Rachel delivered the bullet count to Art, and Tim settled behind his desk. He was dialing the morgue when Art yelled over, stopping him on the third number.

"Tim, in my office, please."

'Please' was worrying. Art never said _please_. Art always said _now_ – unless he was smothering anger in politeness. Tim scribbled the number for the Atlanta morgue on the front of an unrelated file and stood up.

Rachel delivered a verbal report passing Tim's desk. "Raylan was in last night."

"I thought he was on vacation."

She shrugged. "You didn't really believe that, did you?"

"I was hoping. Anyway, it explains the morning chill."

"He's caught up in something again. Art's agreed to loan him to the DEA so at least he's out of the picture for bit."

"Trepidation."

"What?"

"That's how you'd describe me approaching Art's office about now."

"He's not scowling so much. I think you're alright. I appreciate you trying to make me laugh, by the way."

"Not much else to do about it," said Tim.

A bull voice boomed across to them. "Now!"

Tim grinned, "That's more like it," retraced her steps and entered the cave. "Hey Chief, what's up?"

Art never could stop being in the interrogation room. "Been in Atlanta lately?" He didn't look up, going for casual.

"Why?"

There was some scrutiny from Art for the short and deflecting answer. "Got a call from the police – the Atlanta police." He said it 'poe-lease' like he was from Mobile or something.

A sudden jolt of emotions left Tim stunned. He had to sit down, let his legs carry him to the sofa in front of Art's desk. He sank into it, stared at the bad news he thought was coming.

"Don't you want to know why?" Art asked, surprised by Tim's reaction.

"No." Tim rubbed his face, kept it covered. "Yeah. What'd they want?"

"They found your card on a DB – a Deputy US Marshal card with the phone number for this office and everything. You're not bomb-dropping your card all over Atlanta, are you? Hoping they'll ask you to come work for them down there at their bureau instead of waiting for my signature? It was Atlanta you wanted, wasn't it?"

Tim was pulling bits of himself off the floor and piecing himself together.

"Tim, is there something I should know?"

"Nothing, Chief, seriously." Tim dropped his hands, made eye contact to reassure.

"Don't say that to me. I don't want to find out down the road that you've been involved in something when it's too late to do anything about it."

"Am I wearing a cowboy hat?"

"Oh, you're funny."

Neither of them sounded amused.

"So, Tim, you were in Atlanta."

"Yeah, this past weekend."

"Can you give me more than that, please?"

There was that 'please' again. "I was visiting a friend after I delivered that subpoena."

"What subpoena?"

"The one for Heywood Humphrey. I told you about it."

"Heywood Humphrey? That asshole in Georgia that's been such a pain in our behinds?"

"The same."

"Tell me you didn't go alone."

"I went alone."

Art slumped back in his chair. "I get the impression people don't believe me when I say 'don't tell me.' Am I saying it wrong?"

"It went fine. I did some hunting, delivered the subpoena, no bruises, no hospitals, no one shot but a deer, drove on down to Atlanta to have dinner with…" The hands came up again, pressing his fears back behind his eyes. "…a friend. Art, I got a bad feeling. Who's the DB?"

"He's a John Doe for now. They're trying to identify him. They want to talk to you, see if you can help them, wondered if you'd been mugged there or something."

"Mugged?"

"That's what he asked. They're pretty sure the victim's a vagrant. Tox came back with high alcohol levels."

"Can I take the day tomorrow, go down and see?"

"If it was your friend I might allow it, but it's clearly not. I need you helping Rachel with those two assholes who may or may not be in Kentucky. It'd be my ass if we missed them." Art focused back on the work at his desk. "You know how it is with these cases. The officer said they were doing a cursory investigation. It's probably no connection to you at all."

It was a dismissal. _These cases_ were rarely allotted much man power. No one misses the homeless, the disenfranchised. But Tim lingered. "Did he say how he died?"

Art peered at his deputy again, a little more scrutiny. "Knifing. That's all he said."

"Can I have his number? I'd like to contact him, get a photo, you know, just in case."

"I already asked. He said he'd send me what he had later."

"Okay." Tim still lingered.

"Get back to work. I'll let you know when it gets here."

"Okay." He stood reluctantly, eyes stuck on Art's computer monitor, dropped his gaze to the floor finally and shuffled out and back to his desk.

* * *

It was part of their relationship, a non-legal connection that Tim insisted on. Max carried one of Tim's business cards with him always. The call was something that sat in a corner of Tim's thoughts, an inevitable happening, sad in advance of the event. There was no changing who Max was though – he'd stay on the street and die on the street. Tim had offered to help him if he'd wanted it different but he didn't and so it was what it was.

Tim wasn't convinced that dying would be tragic for Max, wasn't convinced that it wouldn't be either. He waffled between the two extremes when he thought about his own life so how could he judge for someone like Max?

_Shut up and color,_ he told himself, slid the list of KAs for Rachel's case front and center on his desk and started making some calls. They were looking for a place to start looking for the wanted men. The idea was to call known associates, sound casual, try to catch something in the conversation, a stiff tone, an awkward reply. Tim had the casual down just fine, distracted thinking about Max, but almost missed the defensive wording from the fifth person he spoke to, almost forgot to underline the name on the list because Art stood up at that moment and waved to get his attention. Tim cut the call short, scribbled a note beside the name, tripped over his chair in his hurry to get to Art's office, get it over with.

Art had a hard expression on his face, scrolling through a series of crime scene photos. "Shit. This is not your garden-variety knifing over a bottle of whiskey or something. No wonder they bothered with the phone call." He turned when Tim walked up behind him, leaning over his shoulder to see. "You don't know this guy, do you?"

He'd been gutted, his fingers cut off and stuffed in his mouth, at least it looked like fingers. Tim hoped it was fingers. It wasn't Max.

It wasn't Max.

"Fuck." Tim stood up straight and dragged his hands down his face. "Fuck."

"So why is your card in the pocket of his jacket?"

"I put it there." Tim stumbled to the other side of Art's desk and slumped into a chair. "Fuck. I'll bet that's Phil. Shit, I gotta find Max and tell him." He pulled out his phone, looked up the number for the burner he'd bought for his friend, dialed. There was no answer. _The customer you are dialing is not available._ "Probably doesn't even have it turned on." Tim sat staring dumbly at the display.

"Who's Max and why does this guy have your card?"

"I gave Max my card, put it in _his_ pocket. Max gave his jacket to…," he gestured at the computer monitor, "…Phil."

"And how does Max know Phil?"

"They both live on the street."

"And how do you know Max?"

"Well, that's a whole other story."

There was no missing the personal attachment, the emotion Tim was trying to hide. Art wasn't going to shrug it off. "This thing with Rachel, get it done then come back and talk to me. As it happens, I have time today for a story." He pointed to his drawer, his stash, an invitation.

"Careful," said Tim. "That's how it started."

"What?"

"The story."

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

Rachel had neatly written notes beside two names on her list of KAs. She was putting on her jacket when Tim walked numbly out from Art's office, still thinking about the 'gook' that Max had mentioned, the one cutting off body parts.

"I've got two addresses on the top of my list," she said. "You?"

It took him a minute to get his mind back around to the day, the job. "Uh, just one."

"Grab your stuff. Let's go."

She waited until they were in the SUV to start prying. "So what was that all about?"

"Nothing really, just…"

In his periphery he saw her cross her arms tightly. There were plenty of secrets stealing through the office without adding another one, not enough communication anymore. Rachel seemed to feel it most, take it hardest, trying to be everyone's friend. It wasn't going to kill him, so Tim described Max for her, and the murder, then waited for the lecture.

There was no lecture. "You mean you look after him?" she asked.

"Not really. He looks after himself. I just replenish his supplies when I can get down to see him. I think I have a whole new appreciation for the guys in logistics in the military. Half the time when he tells me what he wants I don't believe him – I get him what I think he needs. But then I spend a weekend with him and I'm like 'oh, I get it, okay.' One time he asked me for some camouflage netting. I just figured he was stepping back into Army mode, you know, drifting." Tim spun a finger near his head. "But he needs it to hide himself when he sleeps, or hide his stuff when he goes to find a bathroom or get a meal. He can't carry all his shit around with him all the time. I tried to rent him a locker at the homeless shelter but he doesn't trust them there." Tim looked over at Rachel, met her smile. "I have no idea whether that's legitimate caution on his part or just plain paranoia."

"He sounds like a character."

"Yep."

"Is he a relative?"

"Nope."

She cleared her throat after a minute, waited.

Tim embellished. "He was a friend when I needed it. Bit of a rough patch when I was thinking of leaving the Rangers. I like him. I understand him."

Rachel nodded, and that was that. Then she got down to business.

"The first address is a former girlfriend. I always like the former girlfriend, so I'm making it our first stop. What is it about you guys that you think we're still pining for you even after we kick you out?"

Tim thought about Jo with the doofus, thought about a couple of his own ex-girlfriends. He didn't have any such illusions. They made it pretty clear where he stood when they dumped him. He'd never had any desire to see them again. He shrugged.

"Okay, so ex-girlfriend first. Then what?"

"A loose connection, a guy that did business with a guy that did business…you know. But there was something in the way he answered my questions – probably just nervous, guilty of something completely different. Why did you highlight this one?" She pointed at his sheet.

"I dunno, just a hunch. Shit, they're all linked to the car theft racket in some way, but that one guy, I thought I heard machinery in the background, shop type, metal on metal. Made him stand out. Figured if he was still in the business... Probably a waste of time." Tim looked over at Rachel. "You know we're just chasing our tails, right?"

"No doubt, but it's our job. You'd do well to remember that."

"How can I not? You keep reminding me."

"Are you pulling attitude again?"

"Why is it that you pluck my attitude out of the shit pile of attitude stinking up the office right now and smack me down? Am I your example?"

"No, you're the youngest. It pisses me off more coming from you."

"Uh-huh." She was looking smug out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't let it go. "They'll be offering you a chief's chair before you know it. You've got all Art's lines down pat. You're definitely ready."

"I'm ready for a little less attitude."

"I hope they offer you Anchorage."

"Even less."

"No can do. I have governors on my sarcasm. It can't go _less."_

He caught a smile from her.

* * *

The girlfriend was a bust. They could tell as soon as they pulled up to the curb. The bright blue and yellow Little Tikes car in the driveway parked beside the minivan with _Baseball Mom_ on a sticker on the bumper suggested that she'd moved on and up. Two boys ran out the front door, jumped into the van and started a slapping fight. Tim felt he'd landed on a TV set, said as much.

"Some people do live a normal life, Tim."

Rachel told him she could handle domestic bliss without back-up, ordered him to stay put. She got out and headed for the house, intercepting the mother on the walkway, car keys dangling, yelling over to the boys to tone it down.

Tim could see from where he was sitting that the woman was shocked and amused and embarrassed by the questions Rachel was asking, each emotion vying for top spot. She was polite, trying to focus on Rachel, but the riot in the back of the van was growing louder, stealing her attention. Tim decided to intervene, speed things along so they could get going to address number two. He trotted over to the van, put both hands on the roof and leaned in the open side door.

"Either of you seen an alien in the neighborhood recently? 'Bout eight feet tall, green, smooth skin, big eyes?" Tim opened his wide to illustrate.

The question and the strange man stopped the brawl instantly. The two brothers stared; the braver of the two spoke.

"There's no aliens."

Tim frowned, eyebrows jumped once. "Shows what you know. I'm Agent T," he showed them his ID then waved behind him, "This here's Agent R. It's our job to hunt down aliens. You ever seen _Men in Black?"_

"Yeah."

"We were technical advisors on the set." He shook his head, huffed. "They got so much of it wrong."

"Tim."

He turned at his name. Rachel was looking at him funny; the mother was laughing.

"We're done here."

"Gotta go," he said to the boys then looked up at the sky and took a deep and anxious breath. The closer of the two kids leaned out of the van and looked up too.

Rachel grabbed Tim's sleeve and marched him back to the car. "Aliens? You'll give them nightmares for weeks."

"Nah, their mom will straighten them out."

"Who would you believe as a kid – a stranger with a gun and a badge or your mom?"

"So they'll have cool nightmares for a week and something to tell their friends."

"Some days, I wonder about your childhood."

"It was alright."

* * *

Rachel's second option was also a bust. She directed them to another address that wasn't one of her or Tim's top picks but it was on the way, a sort of mindless efficiency. They pulled up at the base of the driveway and Tim turned off the engine and freed a bag of beef jerky from his pocket. He waggled it in front of Rachel and she helped herself to a piece. The two sat ruminating on the snack and the day, eyed the house with low expectations.

"Got good curb appeal," said Tim. "I like the ripped garbage bag and the weed garden. Gives it that 'it's a comfortable place to live' feel, makes you think you could wear your shoes and your hat inside and nobody would care."

"Like your place?"

"Now who's got the attitude?"

There was a car in the driveway and the front door was open, the screen shaded so you could see through it into the hall and another room. Someone was home, there was movement inside.

Reaching into the back, Tim brought up a water bottle, unscrewed the lid and handed it to Rachel who took a good drink and handed it back. Tim took a mouthful too, and that's when the shit hit. The sound of two gunshots smacked the complacent out of both of them. It was followed by a third then a fourth. Tim spit some of the water on the windshield, surprised, scrambled for the door. They cleared the car in seconds, weapons out. Tim went right, around the back of the car to the side of the house, Rachel ran to the wall beside the front door.

"US Marshals," she called loudly while nodding at Tim to continue around back. "We're coming in. Put your weapons down, hands where we can see them."

Two more rounds went through the front screen, stopping Tim. He looked back, concerned. Rachel had her phone out, waved him on, so he turned and sprinted to the back corner of the house.

There was a lot of yelling coming from inside and it didn't sound friendly but at least it wasn't directed at the Marshals. It seemed they'd unwittingly stepped into a domestic.

Tim peeked around the back. A man's body lay sprawled on his stomach, head-first down the short concrete steps at the back door, trying to flee the house and the gunfire and not quite getting there. He was an impractical doorstop now, blocking the exit, his bulk holding the back screen wide open. Crouching out of view of the windows, Tim cautiously moved toward it. There were two gunshot wounds that Tim could see, one to the back of the head, another between the shoulder blades. The victim's face was turned toward Tim, and Tim recognized him. He was one of their two fugitives – unexpected but convenient. Not a domestic, then. Tim wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not.

There was a sudden spike in the ruckus from inside, more yelling, some colorful name calling and threats, and another man made a bid for a back door escape, trampling desperately over the first body. Two more shots stopped him before he could go more than a sad step further than the first man and he fell on top of the doorstop cadaver, lying in the same pose, face down. A Desert Eagle appeared next, coming out of the house well ahead of its owner, its fourteen inch barrel leading the way, pointed down at the second body.

Tim lifted his Glock to meet the new threat. "Drop your gun, now," he said evenly. "US Marshal."

The man swiveled quickly, twitched the fourteen inches of Magnum to follow his line of sight. Tim didn't hesitate – he pulled the trigger and hit his target, leaving the man no time to get a shot off, dead instantaneously. The body tried to fall backward but was stopped by the screen door still propped open. Tim watched as it slid along the screen and collapsed finally, face down too, and lengthwise, landing neatly on the top of the heap.

In the silent seconds following the last gunshot, Tim wondered what the odds were of that happening, of each body falling exactly the same way.

"Fuck me," he said.

Sounds from the house got him moving, Rachel inside now clearing the rooms, calling out for him. He did a quick check of the bodies for vitals, weapons, found only the one but it was enough. It wouldn't go in a pocket and the thought of slipping it into his jeans, front or back, seemed so ridiculous that Tim started giggling. He chose to just hang onto it, stepped awkwardly over the stack of dead and into the house.

"I'm coming in the back," he said loudly for Rachel. "Don't shoot me."

"Tim?"

"All clear to me."

She stepped into view, "All clear," and lowered her weapon. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

She eyed the neat pile of corpses at the back door, walked over to take a closer look. "What the hell happened? Did you stack them like that?"

"Hey, I know better than to move bodies."

"You're kidding, right? They stacked themselves up neatly like that?"

Tim shrugged.

"Jesus, where the hell did you get that?" The enormous handgun in Tim's possession distracted her from the unlikely crime scene.

"This?" He held up the Desert Eagle for her to inspect. "This is compensating for something." He pointed it carelessly at the top body. "I bet he's got a small dick."

* * *

Tim snapped a picture of the bodies with his phone. He didn't think anyone would believe the story otherwise. The first responders from Rachel's 911 call, LPD, sirens blaring seconds after Tim and Rachel met up in the house, they took photos too.

"Let's find some ID," said Rachel.

"Top down or bottom up?" asked Tim.

Rachel squatted and peered at the face at the bottom. "That's one of our guys."

"Yep."

"And so's the one in the middle."

"Uh-huh. But who's the guy with the…" He held up his pinky finger, wiggled it suggestively.

There was a wallet and a driver's license. "Carvill," said Rachel, reading. "Patrick Carvill. Mean anything to you?"

"The guy on the top of my list was Brian Carvill. Related?"

"Some coincidence if they're not."

* * *

Art was pleased with the news, despite the fact that it included one of his deputy's discharging a firearm. He gave them the first genuine smile that anyone had seen in a week. The office warmed up a few degrees. The Chief was on the phone with DC when Tim leaned in his door at the end of the day, his report finished and on offer. He had come for his drink and his talk about Max. He got an apologetic shrug.

Art covered the mouthpiece, whispered, "Good work, today. We'll have that chat tomorrow, if that's okay."

Tim nodded, dropped the report on Art's desk, waved and left.

Art knocked on his desk to get Tim's attention and Tim turned at the door and raised his eyebrows.

"Don't let me find out tomorrow that you ran down to Atlanta overnight to get involved in this. They're handling it."

Tim cocked his head but didn't respond.

He tried Max's number a few more times after he clocked out late, after stopping for some groceries on the way home. He sat alone in his kitchen sipping on a beer, lasagna warming in the microwave, wondering what to do about his friend. A trip to Atlanta seemed his only option. The phone rang as he was opening his second can. It was Rachel. It was bad news. The Lexington Marshals office was in shock, duties stripped down to crisis management. Tim blocked out anything else. Max was forgotten. The beer and lasagna were left on the counter. He collected himself and his weapons and star and was back in his truck heading to the scene of Art's shooting.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

"You talking about any particular option?" Raylan leaned in to hear what Tim had to say.

"The one where we catch up with Darryl…out in the wild world."

"You'd be on board for that?"

"It's Art."

"And you think that's what he'd want?"

"I think he'd do it for us."

Tim made the offer. Lots could happen down in Harlan, face-to-face with Darryl Crowe, the man they were all sure held the gun and pulled the trigger. Tim was willing to hunt him down for questioning and see what opportunities presented themselves at the same time. He was certain that if Art had an idea who had shot one of them, if Art had a window of opportunity to slip between the law books and street justice and chase down a hunch, he would. There'd never be a blatant disregard for the law, but he'd risk bumping the rail driving too fast on an outside curve to make that window, get it done. Raylan disagreed.

"All due respect, Tim, I don't think you know Art as well as I do," Raylan said, turned and walked away.

Raylan's response disappointed. Tim stood wondering what it had to do with anything. He hadn't realized he was in a competition – 'I know Art better than you' – or that understanding someone was measurable or even important at this moment. It was a muddy world and there was an impassable and muddy distance between people. Even the view to the mirror was muddy.

He would've found Raylan's out-of-character dismissal laughably transparent any other day – it would have been worth some follow-up sarcasm. What was it Raylan always said? _A leopard don't change its spots._ But nothing trite was getting past the tightness in Tim's throat tonight, a tightness that strangled. There was a deep and disturbing hopelessness about it all. Tim knew the feeling well, imagined spitting it up on the floor and crushing it beneath his boot, kicking it under the nearest chair. He'd learned years ago not to let those kinds of feelings get in the way, not to let them trouble him when he was working.

Clearly though, something was troubling Raylan…still.

Whatever it was, Tim felt he and Rachel deserved to know. Okay, maybe not him, but Rachel definitely.

Whatever it was, Tim was convinced now more than ever that it was bad. Why else would Raylan suddenly be worrying about what Art thought was right. It had never occurred to him to bother before. Likely Raylan had been staring at an opportunity to slip between the law books and street justice but rather than aiming for the window, like Art would've done, he'd lined the wall with TNT and blown the thing to shit. It would explain a lot.

Whatever it was, Tim was still catching shit for it though it had nothing to do with him.

He let out a sigh.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, life in the military had given him plenty of practice taking shit for someone else's mistakes, more shit than Raylan could possibly dish out, more shit than this job could dish out. He could take it and still think clearly.

And thinking clearly meant not going alone to chase down Darryl Crowe. Ending up in the bed next to Art was no help to anybody. That particular option was shrinking fast into non-existence.

Another day then.

Tim walked back to the waiting area, making himself available.

* * *

He kept his head down the next day, kept his mouth shut mostly except to relay news. There was a time and a place.

"He called you a rat-faced little prick," said Raylan meeting Tim in the middle of the bullpen in a lull. He thumbed an explanation of who 'he' was, indicating the interrogation room where Tonin's former henchman, Picker, sat slow roasting. "He said scrawny, too."

"Well, I'm just thrilled he noticed me. Means I'm doing my job," said Tim. "Sticks and stones…"

"He's got such an easy name to play with. You think he'd be more careful about name-calling."

"Picker, pecker, pecker-head."

"Pecker-wood."

Tim ran a hand over his mouth and Raylan dropped his head, looked at his feet – fatigue and worry, worry and fatigue, and anger. Neither of them laughed. They split up, Tim to run errands, Raylan to meet with the murdering Crowe.

It was almost a relief when the kid walked in and confessed. It accomplished a thing or two whether you believed the signed confession or not – it got the Detroit bureau chief out of their hair, putting Rachel in charge and Tim was cool with her for a leader, and it put Darryl Crowe back in the wild world. Maybe now Raylan would go hunting, a double motivation, Kendal's exoneration and his own personal form of justice.

Tim stayed in view, making himself available.

* * *

Eventually it was clear to everyone that there was nothing left to do except worry. The skeleton crew still lingering at the office went out for a somber drink after the Detroit bureau chief departed for the airport. It was a quiet and supportive toast to Rachel in her new position. No one stayed for more than one – it was no celebration – Rachel went back to the office to try to get comfortable in her new chair, Raylan left to take a shift at the hospital to try to get comfortable with his guilt, and Tim went home to try and sleep.

It had been over thirty-six hours since any of them had seen a pillow.

It was never a good thing not remembering a part of the drive home – not enough sleep and that could be dangerous behind the wheel. Tim never got enough sleep though. He was always up early, rarely slept well regardless. Old habits die hard. He turned off the engine and just sat for a moment, enjoying the quiet, no bass blaring out of the speakers today.

_Bourbon._ The thought got him moving.

She stepped out of her door when he stepped out of his truck.

"Hey, Jo," he said, no more, no energy for it today.

" _Take a walk on the wild side,"_ she sang.

"Pardon?"

" _I said, hey, Joe, take a walk on the wild side. And all the colored girls go – do, do-do, do-do…"_ She trailed off, smiled sadly. "Lou Reed? Hello?"

Her prompting was met by an empty stare, no one home.

"Shit," she said, "I was hoping it wasn't someone from your office. I saw it on the news. I don't know much about Marshals but I'm guessing by the look of you that there's only one Lexington Bureau."

Tim pressed his mouth tightly, looked away. "Yeah, there's just us. It's not a big office."

"I'm sorry. You know him then."

"He's my boss."

"Oh." She walked down her steps and across to him, took him by the sleeve of his jacket, the way Rachel would, and pulled him to her place. "Come on – I'll make you dinner. I have cold beer."

"I think I'd like something stronger."

"I got that, too."

There were no quartz crystals in her house, just more glass tiles, boxes of them strewn around the living room and lining the hallway. She let go of his jacket once he was inside and went ahead of him down the hall, same layout only the mirror image of his house.

"Grab a seat," she called back.

Noises bounced down the hall toward him, Jo clinking around in the kitchen. He stood looking at the couch, his eyes dry and gritty, figured if he sat down somewhere comfortable he'd never get up again, so he explored the contents of the boxes in the hall instead, slipped cross-legged onto the floor in front of an interesting one.

She came back shortly and handed him a glass of something neat and he took a sip while he ran his fingers through some tiles that looked like frozen gasoline on pavement, a rainbow of iridescence captured and held on black.

"I have every color here, I think. Well, everything but pink. It's too expensive to work with."

"Why is pink expensive?"

"They have to use gold in all the reds, to get the color stable. Pink is the worst."

"Gold?" Tim blinked, digested that, couldn't make sense of it. "Real gold?"

"Real gold. Do you like him, your boss?" she asked.

Tim nodded. "Real gold," he said.

She sat down on the floor facing him. "Did you catch the guy that did it?"

He shook his head.

"Is he gonna be okay?"

"Too soon to tell." He took another sip of the liquor, squinted at it. "Is this Old Crow?"

"Yeah. Doofus bought it, thought it might make him a man – like whiskey has secret powers or something. I don't think he ever drank more than a sip of it. Is it bad?"

"Nah, anything's good tonight. Besides, Ulysses S. Grant used to drink it…supposedly."

"Which one was he?"

"Eighteenth." Tim kept an eye on the glass, like it owed him money. "Civil War general." He tipped it up and drank down what was left. _"_ _In every battle there comes a time when both sides consider themselves beaten, then he who continues the attack wins._ He said that. It's true."

"Are you in a battle?"

He looked at her then, eyes full of intent. "Maybe. We'll see. You got any more?" He waved his empty glass.

Jo got up and went to the kitchen a second time, came back with the bottle and a bowl of pretzels. "You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach."

She sat again to keep him company and he helped himself to some more whiskey.

"It's a bit sweet for my taste," he said, "but hey, it's got history. Hunter S. Thompson drank it. So did Mark Twain. It's got popular appeal – republicans and democrats alike. Maybe it should run for election."

" _I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."  
_

Tim shifted a bit, glanced toward the door then back at Jo. "Are you suggesting something? Look, I'm in law enforcement. Don't get out any drugs while I'm here, please."

She drew back, made a face. "I'm quoting Hunter Thompson. You got the republican, so I get the democrat. Chill, Mr. Marshal."

"Oh. Uh, sorry. I just thought…"

"Considering your day, I'll forgive you anything. When was the last time you slept? You look like road kill."

"Uh…"

"Look, go sit on the couch. I'll make us something – can't promise you gourmet though." She reached over and patted his shoulder, stood using it to push off of then grabbed some his jacket again and tugged up. "C'mon, boy."

He eyed the hand pulling at him, found the connection comforting though he stubbornly didn't move to please her. She gave up and he watched her walk away again, back to the kitchen. He considered her invitation, stood finally and peered cautiously into the living room then stepped across to the sofa and sank into it.

He woke at 3am, a blanket and a pillow and a stiff neck. Sitting up, he rubbed his face and contemplated the room. He was through the looking glass. It took a moment to get past the fog and remember where he was, what got him here, and when he finally put it together he collected up his holster and gun and phone from the side table where he'd set them and headed for the door. But a problem presented itself as he reached for the door knob – he didn't feel right leaving her house unlocked, didn't have a key and she was nowhere, probably upstairs in bed and he wasn't about to go looking. Five minutes breathing quietly in the hallway, thinking, and he decided he had no choice but to stay, so he kicked off his boots, slipped out of his jacket and threw it on a chair, dropped his stuff back on the table and flopped back down on her couch. Pulling the blanket over himself he lay awake until the sun came up and then he drifted off again.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

"You alright? You did get home sometime last night and sleep?"

Tim had walked straight through the bullpen to Art's office. Rachel was standing behind the desk shuffling through papers, not willing to sit, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He noticed the red. She looked up when he spoke, the shock still settling on her face.

"I slept here." She nodded at Art's sofa.

"Oh, he'd love that."

She didn't respond.

"I'm going for teacher's pet," he said, walked over and handed her a coffee and a muffin in a bag, thinking she had the look right then of every officer dropped in his battalion fresh out of RASP staring at their first deployment as a Ranger. "We know our jobs, right. You just need to make the final call if there's one to be made."

Rachel turned her back on him and he left her, went to his desk.

Tim was second in if Rachel counted, though it seemed she was never out. He was up off Jo's couch and out the door twenty minutes after drifting off again. He didn't hear her awake upstairs as he unlocked the door, straight out to his truck, breakfast and coffee on the way to the court house. The rest straggled in after him, each wishing for a different day, a different reality.

Now it was time to lean, push all the buttons and poke all the players, slam fingers in doors, call bluffs and yank the rug out from underneath anyone associated with Darryl Crowe. It took most of the day to pull it all together, paperwork and permissions, warrants, finding an RV, a tow truck, getting the IRS on board, then a night of friendly visiting drawing all the corners in and tightening up the perimeters of the squeeze. There was only one focus for the Lexington Marshals, everyone aiming the same direction.

Boyd walked in, what they'd been waiting for, hands out acting the part he announced for himself, "Your savior has arrived," starting another long day of trying to net a shark but all they managed to catch was a minnow and some krill – young Kendal, and now Dewey Crowe up on murder charges. They all chewed on the frustration and exhaustion. Two full days and a night and nothing to show for it.

Tim was back at his desk digging through the piles looking for another route to Daryl, maybe not as the crow flies but anything that might stick, glancing up now and then at Rachel at her desk doing the same, at Vasquez gripping the back of a chair in the conference room trying to look calm and in control but desperately wringing the law books for something to hold Mr. Crowe on.

His phone rang, buzzing on his desk beside the keyboard, and Tim stared at it, not recognizing the number, answered finally, "Deputy Marshal Gutterson."

The voice wasn't familiar, female, tentative, "Is this Tim?"

"That's right, Tim Gutterson."

"Oh," relief. "I'm calling from Atlanta, for Max. He didn't know how to use his phone. Hold on and I'll…"

"Tim?" a familiar voice.

Tim shut out the room, swiveled around in his chair to face the window and leaned, elbows on his knees, hand up to his forehead. "Max? Shit, buddy, I've been trying to call you. Everything okay? You're alright?"

"They found Phil. The cops were around asking about him with a picture. I saw the picture. I told you, the gook got him, man."

"Yeah, I saw the picture too. They called me here."

"They asked about you. I didn't tell them nothing," said Max, all earnest.

"That's okay. They already know. You left my card in the pocket of that jacket you gave away. You're supposed to keep that card. You have another one?"

There was more rustling. Tim yanked the phone away from his ear, a noise coming across abrupt and sharp. "Max?"

More rustling, then, "Shit, dropped the phone."

Tim managed a lop-sided grin and a chuckle. It never crossed his mind that Max wouldn't know how to work a cell phone. But why would he?

"Max? You got another card, right? I'm sure I gave you one when we got your new jacket."

"Yeah, here it is. I got it. It's in my pocket, right here."

"Hey, buddy, listen, I'm sorry about Phil. That was a bad way to go. Anyone you know have any idea what happened? See anything?"

"No, man. He's sneaky, this guy, but I'm gonna catch the sonofabitch."

"No, you're not. Jesus. Don't do anything. I saw the whole report. That was some serious shit. Do me a favor and sleep in the shelters for a while, will you?"

"I ain't sleeping in no shelter."

"Max…"

"I ain't sleeping in no shelter."

Tim closed his eyes, pressed his lips tight. "Fine, just find someone to share a space with then. Don't wander around at night alone, okay?"

"I got my gear for hiding. I'm good."

"Max, you…"

"Oh, hot dogs," and that was it.

Tim heard some shuffling, the female voice again saying, "Max, you have to turn it off. This button here," then nothing. He pulled up the number and called it back – _the customer you are dialing is not available –_ hung up with a growl, turned around to his desk and tossed the cell back beside the keyboard.

* * *

Boyd Crowder dropped his prize piece of information at their feet, at that point it was all he had left as leverage, his knowledge of Raylan's involvement in the death of Nicky Augustine. He revealed his hand but he also revealed his desperation – it wasn't just the Marshals staring at a dead end.

Rachel and Tim knew it for the truth when Raylan avoided looking at either of them.

Boyd thought he'd dropped a bomb. But Rachel was stoic in the face of the news, cool, gave nothing away, and Tim never did give a shit, especially not now, so he didn't have to act the part. It would've been the only good thing in an otherwise shitty day if he could've walked over and planted a fist on Boyd's smug face. Instead, Tim shared a look with Rachel, each reading the 'ah' in the other's expression, the fed-up-with-all-the-bullshit, thank-you-for-explaining-this-fucking-week-but-can-we-just-get-on-with-it deadpan stare.

"Can't really notice the black eye anymore," said Tim after Boyd collected his phone and his empty loot bag and walked out and Raylan strode purposefully into the conference room, angry, not looking back. Tim's comment showed his feelings about it, put a ranking on Raylan's indiscretion, settled it too for Rachel somewhere well below catching Darryl Crowe and messing with Boyd Crowder.

"Fuck," said Rachel softly, so out of character, staring at Raylan's retreating figure, then she laughed, quietly too, and dry and hollow.

Tim looked down at her, concerned. "You okay?"

"Explain something that I'm not understanding – why _wouldn't_ Art want to retire?"

Pulling over Raylan's chair, Tim sat and faced her, didn't have anything to say.

"Tell me he's going to be okay," she said.

"Art's gonna be fine. I mean, shit, there's no way he's letting an opportunity like this pass. He'll come around tonight or tomorrow and lecture us all on the shit that's gone down this week. It's gonna be epic."

Rachel grimaced. "Fuck," she said again.

"Good day to start using that word. I'm going for a coffee. Get you one?"

"Okay."

* * *

Tim found himself at the coffee shop just down the block from the café where Jo was building the mosaic. There were closer places to the court house but his feet took over, led him to the Starry Night Café while his mind continued to turn over the problem of Darryl Crowe. When he finally decided to notice where he was, he was standing at the store front looking up at her work. It stole into his thoughts, the image of her picking at the cement dried to her hands, a web of black ink. It was already dark and the café was empty, still under renovation, and quiet.

"It's gonna be nice when it's done."

The owner of the shop one down was locking up for the night, noticed Tim staring up at the sign half-complete, spoke to him.

"Yeah." Tim turned back the other way, bought two cups of coffee and jogged the few blocks to the office.

* * *

He was the last one to hear the plan. Angry, Tim walked in on Raylan talking with Rachel in Art's office, shut the door, abrupt. "I'm only saying this in here, alright?" He gestured between the three of them then pointed back at the bullpen. "Out there's a different thing. I'm with you out there." He turned to face Raylan. "What the fuck are you doing? The kid's _fourteen years old!"_

"Tim, you know as well as I do that a crime involving a firearm for anyone fourteen or over is almost a guaranteed bump up to adult court."

" _If_ there is probable cause to believe the juvenile committed the alleged felony… _if!_ We don't have probable cause here, Raylan – what we have is reasonable doubt." Tim looked to Rachel to back him on this. "We could've pushed to keep this in juvie court and you know it."

"You're right, Tim," she said, holding herself with both arms. "But it's done. Reardon has already signed off on it."

"Fuck." Tim turned in a tight circle, trapped. "Why didn't we just go after Darryl that day? We could've made something happen, Raylan, ended it then. Fuck, I should've done it myself."

"I won't do it like that."

" _Again,_ you mean."

Raylan gave Tim a warning look, stepped closer. "What are you saying, Tim?"

Tim shook his head. "You think _this_ is what Art would want? You think he'd rather this? I think he'd rather I just put a bullet in Darryl Crowe's _fucking_ head!"

"Do that now, and that kid does forty to life – guaranteed. We have a signed confession."

"You think I don't know that? Why the fuck do you think I'm so angry right now? There's no out for him unless this works."

"We got a chance here to do this by the book, legal."

"A chance, Raylan. _A chance._ Look what we're gambling with."

"It's legal."

Tim took a step forward, finished closing the distance, voice low. _"Fuck_ legal. It's not right."

"It's done." Raylan stood firm. "There is no discussion here."

Rachel stood up then, stepped between them, put her hand lightly on Tim's chest, said, "Tim, if you don't want to be a part of this, I understand…completely. You can take some vacation time while it plays out. I'll okay it – just say."

Rachel had a way of diffusing. Tim and Raylan both turned their attention to her, both took a long and steadying breath in. She managed to lay out each of their positions in three short sentences that seemed directed solely at Tim but encompassed them all. He admired her skill, offered her his.

"I'm not taking vacation time now. I'm here." He held Rachel's eyes for a moment. "Shit, I'm always here," he said, less heat, left as abruptly as he came in.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

**  
**

It was a day of pleasure and pain, equal doses.

Taunting Darryl, that was a thin slice of pleasure. That was all Tim could satisfy himself with since shooting him was no longer an option. He smirked when he remembered the load of bullshit he fed him when Darryl came to confront him on the street. _Sitting on a target for four days_ – like that ever happened. What they did to that guy though, the one in that village on that mountain in Afghanistan, that just might've happened. He'd pay to see the same look on Darryl's face that he saw on that guy, safe and smug in his house, opening his eyes in the dark in the night to the feel of the muzzle of an M4 lovingly kissing him awake. Surprise motherfucker. Your ass is mine. But that's all it was, only a thin pleasure knowing that Darryl could read the truth of that statement in Tim's face.

Knock, knock. Let me in for a snuggle, asshole.

And then some pain – some jarred bones and protesting muscles, a few bruises forming, a bit of blood, warm and sticky on the side of his face, that was what he was dealing with just now, that and a raging amount of frustration for losing Darryl Crowe, Jr at that light. He shook it off, tried too to shake off the blurry vision, stopped when it started to hurt sharply somewhere in his head. He sat still waiting for the scene outside the cracked windshield to regain proper proportion.

When his vision finally cleared he crawled through the glass to the passenger side door and climbed out, squatted beside the wreck and dropped his head between his knees, squeezed his eyes tight. Then he called it in and went to check on the other driver.

The paramedic was dabbing at the last cut and fitting a butterfly bandage on Tim's forehead when Rachel walked up, a quick glance for the tow truck operator eyeing the frame on the Suburban and wondering if he should call in someone with a half-bed and a winch.

"Jesus, Tim. You all right?"

"T-bone. I prefer one off the barbecue."

She looked back at the wreckage. "Yeah, but, are _you_ okay?"

"Had my eye on fucking Darryl Crowe," he said, sliding past the question. "Should've looked left."

Rachel gave up. "Raylan's tracking down Darryl's sister."

Tim nodded, pissing off the EMT trying to hold his skin together.

"You feel up to a ride down to Harlan? Darryl may or may not be showing up at Ava's. A tip from Boyd. I don't trust him." She looked Tim over, looked to the EMT working on him and arched an eyebrow in question.

The man shrugged. "He might have a concussion. We should probably take him and the other driver to the hospital."

"I'm fine. Let's go." Tim hopped off the back of the ambulance and headed for the car.

Rachel thanked the EMT and followed, called to Tim's back. _"I'll_ drive."

He started feeling it as they crossed the Harlan County line, then another half hour later and it was a full-blown headache, a tightening across the shoulders and upper back, cranking the ache up to his skull, or maybe it was down from his skull. Not today – there was work to do.

"Fuck."

"You sure you're okay?"

He didn't answer, dug around in the glove compartment and found the ever-present ibuprofen, swallowed a couple as they pulled up at Ava's house.

It was with intense pleasure that he lined up the narcos, two shots each to ensure at least one round hit the central nervous system – no getting back up once they went down. _Outnumbered and outgunned?_ Please. The cocky bastards had it coming. It might've been enough to kill the headache if he'd had the opportunity to put a bullet between Boyd Crowder's eyes to round off the day. Instead, he had to watch him walk out the door. That was painful. He was getting tired of watching people walk out the door. It was one of the things about this job that sucked.

When he broke down a door, he didn't expect the guy behind it to be able to walk freely out of it later.

* * *

Rachel made the announcement to the bullpen. It was received by another round of cheering not long after the news that Darryl Crowe, Jr. was well and truly dead and the boy's confession tossed in the trash. This round of clapping wasn't accompanied by grim faces but unrestrained grins, genuine good news – Art was awake and on the mend.

It was a pleasure to be right, even if it was just a wild-ass guess yesterday, an attempt to lighten Rachel's day.

"Told you so," said Tim when Rachel walked past his desk.

"What do you know?" She was grinning herself.

"How's Leslie?"

"Relieved. I'm going over. Why don't you come and we'll get you looked at properly?"

"I'm fine, but I'll come along, get the lecturing over with."

"Tim, you've been chewing on pain killers since the accident."

"Not sure you could call my reckless driving an accident."

"You were tired."

"Fine, make excuses for me. The headache is whiplash by the way, that's all, not a concussion." Tim shrugged stiffly into his jacket as he spoke, followed Rachel out.

"Oh, so you're a doctor now?"

"Uh-uh, just intimately experienced with the difference. I've had both."

Rachel stepped onto the elevator and turned, gave Tim a funny look when he paused holding the door. "What?" she said.

He inclined his head to the empty spot beside her. "I didn't know you had a twin. Aren't you gonna introduce me?"

"You are so funny." She didn't sound amused.

"I try."

"We'll be at a hospital. You can say hi to Art but then you take your sorry ass down to Emergency and get it looked at."

"My _ass_ is fine."

She leaned back, peered around him, had a look. "It's okay."

Tim slumped against the wall of the elevator, rolled his eyes. "Oh my God, I hate it when you're in a good mood." Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of ibuprofen and downed a few more.

Rachel was watching. "I'll escort you at gun point if I have to."

"Are you trying to turn me on? You've been talking sexy all day."

"For me, there is no _trying,_ so you can rest assured that I'm not."

Tim blinked, wide grin. "I like you this way."

"Grow up."

* * *

The hospital room was too crowded to be restful, so Tim and Rachel bowed out when Raylan arrived.

"Catch up with you later."

From Raylan, "catch up with you later" meant "see you at the bar." Tim was definitely up for that, a "yep" in return as he walked out of Art's hospital room. It would be a celebration this time.

Rachel went with him down to Emergency, dogging him all the way into an examination room to make sure he actually saw a doctor. She waved her ID around to get him bumped up the queue and they were out quickly and headed to meet Raylan.

Tim got to say it twice in one day. "Told you so."

"You don't get to say that."

"Why not? _She_ said whiplash. _I_ said whiplash. Told you so."

"She also said 'mild concussion likely'. Don't think I wasn't standing right outside the curtain eavesdropping. And you lied to her."

"When?"

"She asked how many of those," she pointed to the bottle of pain killers hidden in Tim's jacket, "you had since the accident and you lied. You said four."

"That's close."

"And now you're going to have six or seven drinks."

"Or eight, I have to disguise the slurred speech from the concussion."

She huffed, shook her head.

"Hey, I know the symptoms."

"Then you know that headache is at the top of the list."

"Your twin doesn't say much. She shy?"

They had arrived at the car. Rachel pointed at the passenger side. "Get in."

* * *

Raylan was already there waiting. He signaled a round when he saw them at the door, set his hat on the table when they joined him. It was familiar and comfortable. Nothing was said until the drinks came and they'd each started in on their whiskey. Raylan lifted his hand again to get the waiter's attention for a second round, not letting the action interrupt finishing the first.

"Should I order one for Art?" asked Raylan, setting his empty glass on the table and gesturing at the vacant seat.

"If you do, I call dibs," said Tim, his glass already empty too.

Raylan eyed the younger Marshal. "We good?"

Tim knew what Raylan was asking – didn't really think it needed asking. "At least till tomorrow."

"Excellent."

The next round came and they toasted silently, the bar noises tugging them gently down into lethargy, the alcohol lubricating the slide. Rachel was just sipping now, careful, still on her first glass; Raylan waved over to the bar again, languid, two fingers up.

"So, looks like I'm heading back to Miami," he said after another pause.

Tim shuffled in his seat, looked over at Rachel and could see she knew too. "Yeah, we heard."

"How did you hear when I just heard?"

"Try listening. It works for me."

Rachel sat up, interrupting them before they got into it. She leaned forward and turned to look at Raylan. "Is it what you want?"

"I think so. I never wanted Kentucky in the first place – not that I haven't enjoyed working with you. And I'll get to see my daughter."

Tim pushed his chair back and dropped his head on the table. "Yeah, that's always been a priority for you," he said on the way down.

Raylan watched him. "Don't tell me you're tired, Tim. How is it they let you into the Rangers if you wear out this easy?"

"Kept my mouth shut and got the job done. That and I always knew where my Ranger buddy was."

"You? You kept your mouth shut?"

"They didn't leave me enough air in my lungs for talking."

"Is that the trick? Rachel, we need to work him harder."

Tim ignored the jab. "I think I also passed my psych eval with flying colors."

" _You_ passed a psych eval? What in hell were they looking for?"

"Team mentality. You want me to spell that first word for you so you can look up the definition?"

"I thought for sure they were looking for assholes if you passed."

Tim grinned. "Well, for sure they were looking for folk predisposed to enjoying _shooting_ assholes. I'm getting lax since I left. You're still breathing."

Rachel relaxed back into her seat, sipping slowly on a second whiskey that she wouldn't finish, brown eyes smiling. It was familiar and comfortable.

* * *

Tim let Rachel drop him off at home afterward. He thought it best to leave his truck in the parking lot at the court house overnight. Jo was on her step when they pulled up, taking out some garbage. She looked up, recognized him and waved. She was wearing one of those strappy tops.

"That's your neighbor?" Rachel was leaning around him, lips pressed tight and twitching, watching the faded and torn jeans and tight strappy top disappear inside. "Down, boy."

"She's not my type," said Tim, narrowed his eyes at her. "She bikes to work…like fucking every day."

"That's kind of cool. I like her for that."

Tim thought it was cool too, but a bit odd. "I'll get you her number – you two can hook up."

"Uh-huh."

He let it sit there, didn't take it up. "See you tomorrow. Thanks for the ride."

"Not a problem. I'll pick you up in the morning."

"All right."

There was a hint in the air, warmer weather coming, the jacket seemed too heavy tonight and he slipped it off ambling up the walk. He realized too late that he should've had something to eat at the bar, there wasn't much in his fridge that wasn't drinkable only, cupboards neglected. The headache was back and the hunger wasn't helping. At the top of his steps, key out for the door, he stopped, turned and headed back down, across the strip of grass and up to Jo's door. He knocked and waited listening to the music pushing through the screen. He shouldn't have been surprised considering she'd already thrown some Jimi Hendrix and Lou Reed at him, but the blues riffs coloring the night seemed at odds with the girl. He decided then he'd better stop assuming. He pulled out his wallet and from it a credit card, tapped it on the door frame when she walked up.

"Chinese? My treat."

She was standing there in her strappy top holding a bottle of beer, her very short dark hair a neglected mess. Tim started rethinking what his type was.

"I prefer spring rolls to egg rolls," she said, eyes focused on the cut across his forehead. "I thought I should warn you before you came in."

"I like everything that's the least authentic Chinese."

"Sweet and sour chicken balls?"

"My favorite. Just saying it's fun."

"We're good then. I'll get a menu."

She had a bottle opener in her other hand, pried the lid off the beer and handed it to him and he accepted it and stepped in when she turned away, walked back the way she came. He followed her.

"Did you get him?" she said, shuffling through a drawer in her kitchen.

"Not me, but somebody did."

"How's your boss?"

"Better."

She smiled for him and slid a menu across the counter then went to the fridge to replace the beer she gave away. He phoned in the order, stopped halfway through giving the address to add three more dishes just to be sure.

Later, after the feast, Jo dropped a pair of extra-strength generic brand pain killers into Tim's hand, watched him take them with some beer.

"You shouldn't drink alcohol with those."

"I don't do it often."

"Yeah, sure. Did you get in a fight?" she asked, slipped onto the couch cross-legged beside him, turned to face him.

He looked sideways at her. "You should see the other truck."

"Car accident?"

"Some stupid fucker ran a red light."

"Did you give him a ticket?"

Tim snorted. "We don't give traffic tickets. Besides, I was the stupid fucker that ran the red light."

Sitting so close to him like she was, shoulders bare, she was fast becoming his type. He wet his lips.

"Shit," she said, watching him. "I was hoping to take a break from this."

"From what?"

"Men."

She untangled her legs and straddled him, settled on his lap, and he relaxed with it, slid his hands up her jeans, pulled on her belt loops, tucking her tighter on his hips. It was a good fit. She let out a breath, still watching him.

The song ended and a new one started up, more blues. It was hypnotic, or maybe the weight of her on his legs was. His voice was gruff. "What're we listening to?"

"You like it?"

"Yeah."

She leaned in and just barely brushed his mouth with her lips, then kissed him on the second pass, lingering this time. He let his tongue drift across her lips and hers peeked out to greet him, a moment, then she sat back, laughed once, answered his question, "They're playing our song. It's _Next Door Neighbor Blues_. Gary Clark, Jr."

"Great, another fucking Junior."

She sang along, a little gravel worked into the timbre for the tune, _"Came home last night with a pistol pointed at my head. _Came home last night with a pistol pointed at my head._ She said you better 'fess up boy, or I swear I'm gonna shoot you dead."_

Definitely his type. "Do you want to go upstairs? I don't want to sleep on the couch again," he said. "And I don't think I'm going to be awake for long."

"Oh? Thanks for the heads up." She slid off his lap and pulled him to his feet and up to her bedroom, left the music playing.

 _Pain and pleasure,_ he thought. _What a fucking day._

* * *

  



	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Tim woke up thinking about Max. There was a crescent moon lending a sliver of light to the room through the drawn curtains and he lay still letting his eyes adjust, getting the layout of her furniture. He knew she was there without looking, her breath dusting his shoulder in the slow rhythm of sleep.

He turned his head and studied the lines of her, her arm up under the pillow, on her side turned toward him. He would only have to shift the tiniest bit to connect with her, so he did. She was warm. He recalled a promise he'd made to himself, pretty sure it was him, to avoid getting involved with anyone for a while. The last hook-up-turned-dating-thing had evolved into a relentless effort on that woman's part to remold him into her idea of a man. The result was an ugly deformation that revealed the worst in him and he was an asshole to her, but she had earned it, and she screamed names at him that he definitely deserved and it was a while before he felt like himself again.

And now this…this thing with Jo, this was probably not the best idea, but how was he supposed to walk away when she was sitting on his lap.

Dating a neighbor was practically like dating a co-worker.

His body betrayed him, Tim Gutterson's very own personal civil war – he was getting hard looking at her, thinking about her touches last night, even while he tried to convince himself to collect his shit and get the hell out. He slipped a hand across the space underneath the sheets, dragged his fingers lightly up her belly and down her thigh to the back of her knee and he pulled her over closer and she woke up and mumbled something and wiggled to help him, draping her leg over his, her hand moving down from the pillow, along his face and on down his chest to his stomach, her nose bumping his, lips finding lips, and the battle was lost.

_Next Door Neighbor Blues_ was up again on the rotation on the iTunes playlist downstairs, catches from it weaving their way distantly through the ceiling and into the bedroom, just barely there.

The sun still wasn't up when he woke the second time, more relaxed than he'd been in months. He was thinking about Max again and decided to do something about it. Max, like Tim, didn't sleep that well. Maybe he'd answer a call.

Tim sorted arms and legs from the pile until he'd freed himself, slid gently off the bed and gathered up his clothes in a bundle and walked softly down the stairs. He dressed in the kitchen and found his phone and dialed his friend.

No answer. He wasn't really expecting one. Today was Friday; tomorrow he'd head down to Atlanta and give Max lessons on cell phone usage.

Flicking on the kitchen light he rummaged around the cupboards finding the supplies he needed to start a pot of coffee. He still didn't have a key to Jo's place and he didn't feel right leaving her alone at four in the morning, asleep with the door unlocked. He slipped next door and grabbed his laptop, his WiFi working just fine through the walls at this distance, skimmed the news and read through a forum on rifle ammo sitting at her kitchen table until the sun came up.

* * *

The clock showed six when he finally shut his laptop and left, pulled Jo's door shut quietly and went to his house for a shower and clean clothes. Eager to start the day and finish the administrative pile-up from the past week, Rachel texted at seven, came by early to give him a lift to work and Tim didn't keep her waiting.

"Leslie just called," she said, tucking her phone back in her jacket. "She wanted to warn me that Art actually got out of bed early this morning, walked around the room a bit."

"Warn you? I don't think we have anything to worry about – four bodies and two service vehicles in the shop. That's nothing."

"That's more than the last year, and they're talking about writing-off the Suburban. You don't do things by halves, do you?"

"I liked that car – it was a comfortable ride."

They stopped for breakfast, bagged it to go. Rachel was distracted and Tim let her be – he was relaxed. The elevator ride was quiet.

"You look better this morning," she said, let him be the gentlemen, hold the door for her into the office.

"I had some sleep…in a bed." He walked past her to his desk.

"Vasquez called last night."

Tim stopped and turned. "Didn't take long for him to get you on speed dial."

"He wants to go after Boyd Crowder."

"Again?"

"I'm going to ask Raylan to stay and help with it."

"Interesting choice of words – 'help' – sure you don't mean _run_ with it, like off the reservation?"

She shrugged one shoulder coyly but replied straight at it. "Are you okay working with him still? You two have had your differences."

"The enemy of my enemy and all that…" He waved it off. "I'm good."

"He said basically the same thing to me once. Said he didn't trust your mouth but you tended to keep it closed when you had a gun in your hand and he liked you best when you had a gun in your hand."

"I like Raylan best when he has his hat in his hand. Doesn't happen often enough. I think he's got the best of it. I have my gun in my hand a lot."

"I miss Art," said Rachel, a wistful sigh. She took her coffee off the tray, her breakfast from the bag and walked into the Chief's office, pulled a chair up to the door side of the desk and started sifting through the pile in the inbox.

They were all playing catch-up now, everything pushed to the side for the pressing matter of catching the man who held the gun and pulled the trigger and put Art in the hospital. Now that Darryl was dead the back-slide of work couldn't be ignored. Tim booted up his computer to start sifting through three days of neglected email, flipped through the phone message slips sitting in a pile on his desk while he waited. One from Atlanta homicide caught his eye and he set it aside to call back at a decent hour and the rest he ordered by importance. The Marshals Service had a hierarchy for fugitives and there were tasks that needed doing as part of the routine of the job.

First order of business was a cold-bore test for his SOG qualification that he had to do before month end – not a problem but it had to be done. He doubted they'd kick him off his sniper duties if he was a day or two late since he was one of the few in the area or on the SOG teams with night shooting experience or reliable accuracy beyond 500 meters, but the lawyers would be on someone's ass if they found out he hadn't logged it and had it witnessed and signed. So a trip up to the State Police training academy in Frankfort before lunch was now on his schedule – a good kind of mindless today, that trip, went well with the stiffness and the aches from yesterday.

Usually he'd get Art to come with him to a local range, sign off that Tim could hit the center of a target with his rifle clean and cold out of the case. It wasn't hard – he knew his weapon, knew his trade, knew how to compensate that first shot though it wasn't really an issue at the short distances required of him as a Marshal. It was a relaxed and controlled atmosphere, no stress at the range so he _never_ missed. They would make an outing of it. Tim would watch Art fire off a few three-shot groupings and he'd give his boss tips on his form and then they'd have a coffee on the way back, talk about the job, the military, firearms, hunting. Going up to Frankfort alone wasn't nearly as much fun.

After Frankfort, he figured he should find Jo over lunch, tell her, as nice as it was, he couldn't do this.

He got up with his coffee and walked into Art's office to let Rachel know his plans, at least the part about the trip to Frankfort, stepped around the chairs and leaned against the desk facing her.

"You know, it'd be easier to get to the keyboard if you were in the chair on the other side."

"You know, you'd never lean on the desk like that if Art was here."

"He doesn't sit on this side. Walking around and leaning on that side, that would be weird, all up in his personal space, kind of like flirting."

"Are you flirting with me then?"

"No. I'm telling you my plans since you're in charge. Besides, I don't think I'm subtle enough for flirting." He thought about it, shook his head. "Nope. I wouldn't know how."

"Take lessons from Raylan before he goes. He's got that flirty smile down to an art."

"Speaking of Art, I think even he'd be better at flirting than me. I had a girl once tell me not to smile. She said it just came across as threatening."

"Oh, I've seen a genuine smile from you – not at all threatening. You look about six when you do it."

"Great flirting potential there."

"If she was a daycare worker."

He grinned.

"See?" she said, pointed at him with her pen, "Six years old."

"Why don't you move around to the chair? Art might not even come back to this office. You know that, right? Not this close to retiring."

Rachel looked across the desk to the Chief's chair, frowned. "Not yet." Her voice was barely there.

"All right. Anything you need me to do before I go?"

She stared at the piles of paper. "I'll let you know."

He walked out feeling a twinge of melancholy. It's never the same after the first time someone you know gets hurt. It can't be.

The homicide detective in Atlanta wasn't available so Tim left a message and replied to a few emails before retrieving his rifle from the locker and heading to the parking lot. He was in the hall when he remembered the Suburban was out of commission, went back to see the administrator and sign out a different car.

The one-way streets around the court house in Lexington made it convenient for him to pass by a particular coffee shop on the way out, the one that kept biggie-sized cups on hand for caffeine-addicted customers like him, decent strong coffee to pour on demand. He set it into the cup holder in the car and took another turn and drifted slowly past the Starry Night Café. Jo was out front working. He noticed the construction boots for the first time, grinned at the figure she cut in her overalls and sweatshirt, hiding all the soft places he'd explored last night. He slowed down then pulled in at the curb across the road, sat and watched her climb down her ladder and step back to the edge of the sidewalk to get a view of the whole mural. It was taking shape now, the circles of yellow and orange, irregular, their unevenness and imperfections making them more beautiful, set off by the darker hues of the background, the midnight blues and blacks, some mauve and brown, a single spire jutting up, dark. She wiped the back of her arm over her face to clear her hair back from her eyes then dropped both hands to her hips and tilted her head, thinking.

She had his phone number. It was on his card; he gave it to her this past weekend. She hadn't called to find out when she'd see him again. He was surprised she hadn't called. He realized he wanted to touch her. It was that simple.

She turned when she heard the car door shut, waved and grinned and loped over across the road, stopped short, a few feet between them.

"You came to break it off, didn't you?"

He nodded an affirmative then took a step toward her, a tug. "Yeah." He looked across the road to the mural, avoided eye contact.

"Well, you can if you want to. You didn't leave anything at my house so that makes it easy." She turned away.

"Hey, Jo…"

"I've run clean out of songs with that lyric, Mr. Marshal." She twisted to look at him, an easy smile. "That was nice last night, by the way. Thanks."

"Are you gonna be here? I mean, later. I'm working but…"

She strolled back, hands in her pockets, covered the last of the distance between them, right up against him and jammed her nose into his shoulder, into his neck, tilted her head and kissed his chin, then up another inch and bit his ear. He slid his hands around to her back, inside the overalls and under her shirt and kissed her on the mouth, hard.

_Shit,_ he thought, _this isn't working._ He settled her back at arm's length before his body could convince him to blow off the morning and take her home. "Van Gogh," he said, clearing his throat, nodding at her mural. "Van Gogh, right?"

"Yep."

Her amused look wasn't lost on him.

"Fuck off," he said. "I'm not an art student."

"But you are a guy. Yes, van Gogh. He lost an ear, you know."

"His girlfriend bite it off?"

"You said _girlfriend._ That's a word with lots of baggage. You want to be careful throwing that around." She grinned, made it look easy like she always did. "Some say he cut off his own ear – got some crazy going on. Some say he was being a gentleman and lost it in a fencing dual with Gauguin over some prostitute."

"Huh."

"That's one possible reaction to a dramatic story." She was making fun of him again. "What do you want, Tim?"

"Can I buy you lunch?"

"Why don't you pick up something and we'll sit on your bench? I don't want to have to clean up. Takes too much time."

"Sure, okay."

She nodded, watching him. "I don't need you, but you fit in my world just now if you want it."

He didn't know how to respond to that, studied his boots. "What time?"

"For lunch? Doesn't matter. Whenever you're free. I've got another tiling job starting Monday so I'm going to get as much as I can done on this today and tomorrow and Sunday."

"I should be back in a couple hours."

"Where're you going?"

"Gotta do a rifle qualification up in Frankfort."

"A what?"

"I'll explain at lunch if you really want to know."

She reached over and poked him gently with a finger, managed to hit a bruise. "I wanna know."

"Ow."

* * *

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Tim figured sooner or later he'd end up full-time down in Louisiana, handling training at the SOG headquarters at Camp Beauregard. They asked him every year. Originally he'd planned to avoid it, thought the complete change of career from Ranger to Deputy US Marshal might be enough to distract him from the things he missed about his time with the regiment, and it did for a while, but he was beginning to feel the frustration of the constraints put on him by the Marshals Service. He understood it, but it jarred like a weapon malfunction – you've got the target in your sights and you know he's yours and you press the trigger and nothing the fuck happens. Maybe full-time at tactical wouldn't be a bad thing.

At least they let him have a rifle, and he was usually the one that got the call in the office when there was a situation, a raid or someone needing backup. No one there had more experience getting shot at than he did.

He volunteered for the Special Operations Group as soon as he was able. The twenty-seven day training course, designed to test the hopefuls' mental and physical toughness, went by quickly. He dubbed it the Ranger Indoctrination Program _Lite_ , but never out loud, waltzed through it with the added advantage that they were teaching very little that was new to him. Breaching, helicopter insertion, close-quarters battle techniques, precision shooting – that was regular training back with the regiment. The Marshals running the course stopped paying any attention to him after awhile, leaving him alone to help the other candidates when they were having problems, and they let him test for a sniper position at the end of it, welcomed him with open arms to the teams. He had what they wanted and he came pre-packaged and fully-assembled.

Sitting behind the line at the outdoor shooting range in Frankfort, waiting for a spot to open, Tim thought about his days with the Ranger regiment, thought about what it would be like to do the selection program again if he decided to reenlist. He knew he could do it, tighten up and get through the eight weeks of RASP – he was sure he could – but he'd have to want it badly to go back to day one of that hell. They couldn't take away his Ranger tab, but that regimental scroll, that baby expired, and for good reason. He'd have to earn it again and it would hurt. It wasn't like he was eighteen anymore.

The Kentucky State Police Special Response Team was practicing on the range today and Tim watched them putting their AR-15s through a shooting routine. When the team was finished, Tim walked over to the range officer and explained what he needed and set up and made his shot and got the nod then he followed up with some more shooting since he was there anyway, satisfyingly tight groupings that got the attention of the men still talking behind him. Tim probably spent more time at the range keeping up his skills than the rest of the Lexington office combined. It was important to him.

He chatted a bit with some of the SRT members while he diligently filled out his data book, some good-natured ribbing between them.

"Didn't know the Marshals had rifles."

"Let alone someone to shoot them."

"Oh, there's always someone willing to shoot us," said Tim, purposely misunderstanding.

"Shit, he didn't mean nothing by it." The range officer had walked up with the paper and signature for Tim. "We all know about your Chief. How's he doing?"

"I didn't take it wrong, don't worry. And he's recovering, thanks."

"I hear you got the guy that shot him."

"We should've, but it wasn't us."

* * *

"I don't get it," she said, her mouth full of sandwich. "Why do you have to do the qualification with a cold rifle?"

"The bad guys don't let us take practice shots. Go figure."

Jo went very still. It was a brief reaction but Tim caught it in his periphery.

"You _actually_ shoot people?"

"Sometimes they just don't get the hint when we _show_ them the gun, they make us pull the trigger. Maybe they honestly think we don't know how to use it."

She turned her head to stare at him, the uncertainty on her face obvious.

"Wasn't me that shot Bambi's mother," said Tim, hands up, playing at defensive.

She didn't look like she believed it, any of it, leaving nothing to believe. She laughed through another mouthful. "I can't tell when you're joking."

"I never joke."

"See?" She finished her lunch and brought both legs up onto the bench so she could face him, touched on the morning's subject. "So are you free tonight?"

"Nope."

She looked disappointed, but just for a moment. "I guess I'm going to have to watch _Sons of Guns_ by myself."

"Like you fucking watch that show." Tim had given up on the idea of not seeing Jo again, it was just too much temptation and he decided to follow it wherever it went. "No, I'm pretty sure I got plans with my neighbor after work."

"Assuming a bit?"

"Admit it, you got no life other than work."

"Well, imagine! We actually do have something in common."

Tim grinned like a six-year-old. "I'm sick of take-out, so I was thinking…steak?"

"I like mine rare."

"I can do that. What d'you wanna do after?"

And there was that amused look again. "Cold-bore qualifying?"

The heat spread from the center out and he covered his face chuckling, tried to cool off by remembering how he felt midway through Ranger school – miserable. That did it, mostly. "It takes on a whole different feel the way you say it."

"Have you seriously shot somebody before?"

"That's a bit like asking somebody if they're a virgin."

"I'm not a virgin."

"I wasn't asking. Will how I answer affect how much I get to see of you tonight?"

She paused before answering, tilted forward toward him and whispered, "You are so not my type."

"Funny, I keep thinking the same thing about you."

He watched while Jo stood up and stretched then folded her arms tightly, her back to him. He waited and eventually she turned around to face him. She leaned over and put her hands on his shoulders and kissed the cut on his forehead, then his nose and then his lips, putting some of last night into it until he could feel the heat building again. She straightened back up and left him sitting there, walked across the street to get back to work.

He was a little uncomfortable driving back to the court house.

* * *

Tim saw the grenade drop on the hood of the car as he pulled into the parking lot, watched in slow motion as it bounced, a glimpse of a second one rolling underneath out of sight. He jammed his foot hard onto the accelerator and prayed. The grenade caught the front windshield, the momentum carrying it up and over, along the roof and down onto the trunk before it exploded. Tim threw himself down sideways as the car lurched ahead, hoping the seats might provide some protection from the shockwave and the shrapnel. They detonated one right after the other, blowing out the windows and sending sharp projectiles in every direction.

The short concrete wall surrounding the parking lot stopped the car, the impact blowing the airbags, but the distance traveled was just enough to put the worst of the damage from the explosions into the back of the vehicle. And if the sound of the blasts hadn't gotten the attention of everyone in the court house, the car alarms screaming immediately after certainly did.

Shards of metal from the grenade shredded the airbags, dug into the car's trunk and roof and panels, ripped the headrests off their posts and chewed into the seats and through to skin. Slowed down by the upholstery they were only painful not lethal. Tim fought his way out the passenger side door and fell to the pavement along with a shower of broken glass, dazed, fumbled for his sidearm.

"Fuck!" He let it out in a scream but couldn't hear a thing except ringing.

The security guard at the Marshals' entrance got to him first. He was met by the muzzle end of Tim's Glock and threw his hands up and backed away quickly. Flames burst from the rear of the car and Tim scrambled in a three-legged crab-walk nearer the front and up against the low concrete wall, straining to hear anything, eyes wide open and scanning for threats. He adjusted his grip on his gun, his hands now slick with blood. A familiar Stetson came into view, mouth working beneath it but no sound coming out. Raylan ignored the Glock, yanked Tim to his feet and pulled him out from beside the car, away from the fire, the heat flaring up as they passed. He half dragged Tim toward the back of the court house and let him go when he was satisfied they were clear of danger and Tim slid down the wall that he was propped against, slid his gun back in the holster. He thought it strange that the fire trucks arrived without their sirens on.

Rachel crouched in front of him, lips moving, questions probably. No answers. Tim just shrugged, covered his ears and said, "Fuck," again. "Fucking grenades," he said. He caught the words on her lips this time. _Stop yelling._ He grinned, buzzing, said, "Fuck," once more, whispered, dropped his head back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.

An ambulance came and Rachel helped him into it and it took him to the hospital.

* * *

The doctors gave him a good once-over, cleaning cuts and repeatedly checking his hearing. They insisted on admitting him – two head rattles in one week made them nervous about sending him home. He didn't know what he was agreeing to until Rachel showed up later with some clothes out of his locker, sweats and a clean t-shirt without holes, and his book from his desk, and Raylan. Tim was able to hear a bit better by then, everyone talking to him from the inside of a pipe, muffled and distant, but the sharper background noises of the hospital were painful.

"I'm fine to go home." Tim complained to them. "It's just some fucking cuts and…"

"Don't make my life difficult," said Rachel. "Stay in the hospital tonight."

He pretended not to hear her so she wrote it out. He couldn't ignore that.

She had brought her computer with the surveillance footage from the parking lot, and the three of them scrolled through the day's worth. There wasn't a clear shot of the man's face but Tim had no doubt who had tossed the grenades – Heywood Humphrey, all six-foot fives inches of him loitering at the back of the building. It was a memorable silhouette.

"Heywood Humphrey," he said, pointing at the computer screen. "I'm pretty sure it's him. How many fucking other giants are there that have reason to get bitchy with me? I read the list of shit they confiscated from him last year. He's a grenade kind of fucking…dipshit asshole fucking coward."

"Don't hold back now, Tim," said Raylan. "Tell us how you really feel."

"I should've brought home the fucking deer meat and let it fucking spoil in the truck. We could've hung the antlers in the conference room."

Raylan turned to Rachel. "Do you have any idea what he's talking about?"

"Tim are you all right?" She eyed him, concerned.

"I'm fine."

"Then stop yelling at us."

"I'm not yelling."

"Yes, you are." Raylan and Rachel were together on that.

The hospital room felt like a jail cell after an hour. Tim tried sleeping, gave up and paced the floor then went through his pockets for his phone. He didn't know her number, didn't even know her last name. An idea surfaced past the headache now well-entrenched and he did a reverse look-up with her address – at least he knew that by heart. He dialed and it rang and rang and he finally gave up and hung up. Who the hell doesn't have some kind of answering service? Jo, apparently. He was surrounded by technophobes. He tried Max's burner again just for something to do. Again no answer. Stretching out on the bed he closed his eyes, sat up a minute later and walked out into the hallway.

There was a Deputy US Marshal sitting on a chair outside his door, Nelson. Tim frowned.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm on protection detail."

"What?"

"This is what happens when someone throws grenades at you." Nelson mimed as he talked. He looked ridiculous, especially when he got to the last part. "You get to have someone watching your ass."

Tim enjoyed the charades, eyebrow up. "I can hear you okay, you know. I'm going to see Art. You can come too if you want."

"I sat outside his door most of Tuesday. I was enjoying the change of scenery."

"Fine. Stay here then." Tim bared his teeth and growled at him and headed down the hall.

"Hey, are you even supposed to be up walking around?"

* * *

Art was awake and sitting up and looking more himself. He was sounding more himself too.

"Jesus, Tim, look at you. Has the dress code at the bureau gone to shit in my absence? I think you've taken the body piercing a bit too far for regulation. I may have to speak to Rachel about this."

"Hey, Boss. Good to see you feeling better."

"How many cars have you destroyed this week?"

"Only three. And really only one was my fault."

"Well, that's just great. How many do we have left?"

Tim pulled a chair up beside the bed and sank into it. "I missed you at the range today."

"Did you make your shot?"

Tim nodded. "I only make it look hard to make you feel better."

"You don't make it look hard enough to make me feel better. You okay? Grenades? Heywood Humphrey? Tim, you pissed off the wrong guy. It's not like this is a surprising move for him, at least not surprising to anyone who's read his jacket."

"Well, we might be able to get him finally. You know he was involved in shooting that game warden even if they can't find any evidence to prove it."

"Celebrating putting him away will be a whole lot of fun when we have to do it at your funeral."

"I'm fine. He's a fucking amateur. I had the car windows open in the front. He should've counted to two and lobbed one in. I'd have been shredded."

"Even amateurs get lucky. You be careful." The two of them shifted, both uncomfortable in one position for very long. "You here for the night?"

"Yeah. I'm thinking of signing myself out."

"It'd make this old man feel better if you didn't."

"What if I had someone to go home with?"

"That'd make me feel better too as long as it was a nice girl and not Raylan with a twenty-sixer of Jack."

Tim shifted in his seat again.

Art chuckled. "God, I hope it's not someone I know. I'd feel irresponsible not warning her off."

* * *

 

 

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Tim tried calling Jo again after he left Art, Nelson in tow. The phone rang until he hung up. He didn't want to be here, sighed loudly standing in the doorway to his hospital room. Everything was off. Everything had changed. It was time to shift and adjust to the new landscape. His ears were still ringing but that wasn't it. It wasn't the aches and pains and the stiffness still there from the collision in the intersection a few days back. It wasn't his longing for another night with Jo or Max's situation or Boyd's revelation about Raylan or Art in a hospital bed or a lack of sleep or lining up with oblivion that afternoon in the parking lot. It was something else entirely or maybe everything at once. It was coming to the end of a good book and knowing there wasn't a sequel. Time to choose a new plot.

Nelson had gone into the room ahead of him, checked the corners and closet and bathroom, turned and watched Tim standing there with his eyes focused somewhere else, chewing on his lip.

"Tim? Everything okay? The room's clear."

Nelson shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, always nervous in Tim's company, watching him warily as though Tim were a dog whose tail wasn't wagging. Tim didn't make it easy for anyone really, wasn't one for tail wagging, not for anybody, and Nelson couldn't seem to figure out that all he had to do was throw it back. It was beyond him to let loose and roll with the snark and draw out the grin that Tim always had lurking, hiding just behind the bared teeth.

"It's nothing," Tim said, not interested in talking to Nelson about what was bugging him. "Do you have a car here?"

Nelson nodded.

"I'm going home. You mind dropping me off?"

"Uh, I don't think I can. Rachel told me…"

Tim held up a hand, silencing the argument, and phoned Rachel to tell her he was signing himself out, told her he didn't need a protection detail, told her so he couldn't get Nelson in trouble, then he collected up his belongings and headed down the hall to find someone who would accept his signature on a piece of paper saying he was taking full responsibility for any of the consequences of disregarding the doctor's recommendation to stay in the hospital overnight. And then he went home.

Nelson agreed in the end to drop him off, after Tim had passed him his phone for a quick word with Rachel before marching out the door.

"You sure about this?" said Nelson falling in step behind.

"Yep."

Fifteen minutes later Nelson was pulling up to Tim's house. Tim did a quick visual of the property looking for a giant then, satisfied it was safe, he opened the car door.

"Thanks for the ride."

"Um, Tim, I was wondering…"

"I'm fine. I don't need you to stay."

"No, uh…"

Tim slid out of the seat, ducked down to look back in at Nelson. "Uh, what?"

Deputy Dunlop looked embarrassed, more nervous than usual. Tim wanted him gone, wanted to forget about work tonight, so he nudged a little hard.

"What is it, Nelson? I'm tired."

"Um… I can call you tomorrow about it. It's nothing."

"Tell me now. I might be out of town tomorrow."

"Uh… Well, it's just… I almost missed my qualification last month."

"Shooting?"

"Yeah, uh, I just squeaked in at 210." He worried his fingers on the steering wheel. "I didn't score well on the weak hand stuff and um, some misses because… I'm not great at shooting from behind the barrier, right? And at the 25 yard distance I'm a bit iffy." He finally looked Tim in the eye. "Would you, uh… I was hoping you might…"

Tim sat back in the seat, giving Nelson his attention. "You want me to take you to the range, see if we can't work out whatever it is?"

"Yeah. Would you?"

Tim nodded, wagged that tail a little bit. "Yeah, of course. No problem." He thought about it, where to start. "I had great instructors – got some good tips that they don't teach at Glynco. In the regiment, you understand, we got to do a lot of shooting. I can get you up to sharpshooter on your next qualifier."

"That would be awesome."

"We'll start Monday after work, focus on basics. You'll be amazed what you'll be able to do." He slapped Nelson on the shoulder. "Just give me a few hours and we'll have you shooting better than Raylan."

"You think?"

"Yep." Tim got out of the car again. "I promise. See you Monday."

Nelson smiled and Tim gave him the thumbs up. "Dude, sharpshooter, minimum."

"Okay. 'Night."

"'Night."

He closed the car door and shut out work, shut out the day. He had noticed her sitting on her step when he and Nelson pulled up, bottle of beer in her hand. It had drawn out a smile seeing her but he didn't comment. He wanted this kept separate from work, for now.

"You got another one of those?" he asked, stopping in front of her, interrupting her version of a blues song that he didn't recognize.

"Only if you're invited in."

He tilted his head over, wiped his hand over his mouth to hide the grin. "I was hoping to sleep in my own bed tonight."

"I was hoping for steak."

He sucked in his lower lip and stretched his eyebrows up, suddenly very tired and sore and a bit sad. "Sorry," he said.

She must have seen the sad, sang a little for him. _"Trouble in mind, I'm blue. But I won't be blue always. 'Cause the sun's gonna shine, in my backdoor someday."_

She sang it slow, in no rush to finish and get on with the conversation. That was one of the things that he thought about when she wasn't there, that she was never in a hurry. "Are you ever not singing?"

"Only when I'm kissing."

"Not sure which I like better."

"They're mutually exclusive, unfortunately."

"Can I have that invite?"

"What happened?"

"Somebody threw a grenade at me."

She stopped breathing for a moment, blinked, then let out the air, slowly. "That is the best excuse for standing someone up I've ever heard. And believe me, I've heard some good ones."

"Can I come in, please?"

"What about sleeping in your own bed?"

"I'll suffer."

She stood and came down to the walkway and handed him the rest of her beer and stopped singing long enough to kiss him and run a hand over the fresh cuts on his arm and on his face. "You make it easy to forgive you, neighbor. Grenades, huh?"

"It wasn't easy dodging grenades to fucking get here."

"All the best things in life are work."

He took a grateful drink from the bottle of beer and followed her singing inside.

" _I'm gonna lay my head,_  
On some lonesome railroad line  
Let the 2:19 train  
Ease my troubled mind."

"I just kinda suck at turning the other cheek," he said later, enjoying the soft skin and the spider web he couldn't see in the dark. He reached down and pulled the blanket up over them, the sweat starting to cool. "I hate that we didn't get Darryl Crowe, Jr." He said the name like a curse, emphasis on each of the three parts. "It should've been us."

She didn't reply, half asleep already. He lay awake a while longer thinking about six feet, five inches of threat and how easily he could fix the problem without the constraints of the United States Marshals Service Oath of Office.

* * *

Noises in the yard woke him at two in the morning, eyes snapped open. The ringing in his ears seemed to have faded out finally and he listened hard, heard something outside. He slipped out of bed and into his boxers and a t-shirt and found his backup in the dark and moved quietly down the stairs, all senses on alert. He unlocked the front door and walked across the cold grass to the backyard and peered around behind the house. Someone was at the back door. The dark couldn't disguise the fact that the figure was turned away and under six feet tall.

Tim walked softly across the lawn, gun up and aimed, said, "I'll fucking kill you if you move an inch. Hands up where I can see them. Nothing stupid 'cause I _feel_ like pulling the trigger tonight."

The figure almost fell over at the sound of Tim's voice. Something slipped from his hand onto the grass. "Oh, Jesus," he said, sounding unnaturally loud at that hour. "Jesus, don't shoot."

"Hands up!"

"Oh, Jesus."

The back light came on then, a spotlight for the drama, illuminating both Tim and the back door prowler. It was Jo's ex, the doofus, and he was petrified in place.

Tim closed the distance and put the muzzle on the ex's forehead. "What the fuck are you doing? I told you to stay away."

"I'm sorry. Shit, shit, shit. Don't shoot me. Oh, Jesus." And he started sobbing.

Jo opened the back door then, a flashlight and a baseball bat. She took in the scene – her ex, he'd wet himself in fear, a puddle on the patio stone at the bottom of the step, Tim with his gun out and menacing.

"Oh, shit," she said. "Just stop. What the fuck?"

She reached out a hand, motioning Tim away but he was already taking a step back, lowering his guard and his gun, anger pushed down by her distress. She plunked herself down on the door sill, bat and flashlight on her lap. It was obvious she was holding back emotion.

"God's sake, Eddie," she said, pleading. "Are you getting the picture yet? Stop it. Tim, just… Eddie get the fuck out of here. You're gonna get hurt. Enough. Go away. Leave me alone."

She didn't get finished, the last phrase fading as it came out and she watched Eddie stagger around the side of the house and disappear. Tim bent down to pick up what Eddie had dropped earlier, a handgun.

"Is that...?"

"It's a fake," he said. "Stupid fuck."

"Oh, God," she said. "Would you have? Seriously?"

He turned to look at Jo, shrugged. "He won't be back. I can fucking promise you that."

"No. He won't."

Tim slumped, tired, feeling a bit off about the whole thing, leaned against the house. They stayed like that out in the lit backyard for a time. Jo moved first, arm out and fingers tugging Tim's hair.

"C'mon," she said grabbing a handful of t-shirt. "You want to sleep in your bed? Would you sleep better? I'll join you."

"It might be booby-trapped."

He turned his head to look at her and she smiled and he ducked his head and chuckled.

"So stay with me then," she said.

"I think your bed's more comfortable than mine, anyway."

"That's only 'cause I'm in it." She patted the space on the step beside her and he moved onto it. "What are you doing tomorrow? I don't _have_ to work. We can stay in bed till noon if you want, order room service. By the look of you, it couldn't hurt."

"I'm sorry about all this."

"Yeah. Me, too."

"I didn't know he'd…"

"Piss his pants? Me, neither," she said sadly. "I told you he was a doofus."

Tim had chambered a round when he stepped out the door earlier, expecting Heywood Humphrey. He cleared it, dropped the mag and snapped the round back in.

"You look like you know what you're doing."

He handed her the gun. "It's safetied," he said when she hesitated. She took it. He kept the magazine. "I don't do anything else as well as I do this." He tapped the mag against his leg. "You can trust me. I wouldn't have shot him unless he gave me cause."

"And if he gave you cause?"

"He'd be dead."

She turned the gun over in her hands, rough fingers feeling the shape of it, working relentlessly, agitated. He watched her. She wasn't looking at the weapon, only touching it, trying to get familiar with it like he was with her earlier. It made him restless after a while and he took one of her hands to slow them down and held it.

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

Sleeping in just wasn't working for Tim. He tried. Jo kept him busy when they first woke up and he was content to push the envelope until seven but then his fidgeting worked him over to the edge of the bed to keep him from waking her up – she was happily asleep again. He sat up finally and dropped his feet on the floor.

Her eyes opened and she rolled to face him. "Guess I'm going to work."

"I'll drive you."

"No, I'll bike."

The past week went through Tim's mind in review, disjointed, pieces slotting themselves. "Yeah, I guess you will bike. I forgot – my truck's still in the parking lot at work." He crawled back onto the bed and across her. "I think my clothes are on this side."

He leaned over the edge and grabbed his shorts and his jeans and flopped onto his back to wiggle into them, lying across her stomach. She tried to tickle him but he just lay there calmly, dismissive of her efforts. Eventually she gave up.

"Do you have any feelings at all?"

Only his eyebrow acknowledged the question.

"Maybe I'll run with you to the café then go get my truck." He slid over on top of her, lingering to let his hands roam, then got up to find the rest of his clothes, finished dressing while they talked. "I haven't had a chance to get out for a run all week."

"If that's what you want to do. You still look a bit beat up though."

"I'm fine. I'm gonna go change. Meet you out front in ten."

"Are you always like this? God, I feel like I'm in the army."

Tim snorted loudly. "Leave maybe." He sat back on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks.

Jo propped herself up on an elbow. "You were in the army?"

"Yeah. I thought you knew that."

"How would I know that?"

"I dunno."

"How long have you been out?"

"About four years."

"How long were you in?"

"Uh, almost nine."

"Not likely to rub off anytime soon then, huh?"

He turned to look at her. "No."

"You are so not my type."

Tim strapped on his watch, checked the time. "You're down to seven minutes."

"Can I have breakfast first?"

"I'll buy you something on the way in. I got cash."

She stayed there motionless, staring at him.

"Six minutes," he said.

She made him wait fifteen. Tim was doing push-ups on the front lawn when she finally appeared so she rolled her bike over him, laughing, got on it and started down the street.

"I want coffee, _now,"_ she yelled.

He got up and chased her.

* * *

Tim left Jo at the café and headed to the court house to see if there was any news on Heywood Humphrey, and to check on his truck. He walked backward into the bullpen drinking a coffee, his sweatshirt bundled in his other arm, nodded at a couple of deputies on weekend duty. Rachel was sitting in front of Art's desk, looking to Tim like she was part of the furniture. He walked straight in to talk to her.

"You been home yet this week?"

"Yes." You'd think he'd insulted her with the tone she used in her answer. She waved her pen at him, frowning at the sweats and t-shirt. "Is this proper office attire?"

"I'm off today." He applied the same tone back.

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm an idiot."

"At least you're not in denial. Go get me a coffee."

So he did, brought it in to her and occupied his new spot leaning against Art's desk.

"Nelson tells me you're going to help him with the qualifying next month," said Rachel. "I appreciate you doing that. I don't need him stuck on a desk – not now with everything else."

"Hey, don't thank me – it's in my best interest. I want everyone in the office shooting well if I'm relying on them. Is there anyone else having problems, scoring low? I'll do refreshers. I'd like to do a training day on room clearing too. We're getting sloppy about it – someone's gonna get hurt. Everybody crowds in on the door like it's fucking happy hour at the bar."

"I'll talk to Art."

"Yeah, you could do that. Or, you could just say _yes."_

Rachel paused and blinked, a small frown. "Yes. It's a good idea."

"There. Was that so hard?"

"What do you want, Tim?"

He pulled up a chair and sat down. "Any luck tracking down Humphrey?"

"We got a BOLO out as soon as we knew it was him. Got a clear ID from the security camera on the building behind the lot. I'll let you know if I hear anything."

"Who's on it?"

"Everybody – LPD, State Police between here and Florida, us. I'm not taking this lightly. He tried to kill you. You're one of us."

Tim stood again, coffee finished. "He'll head south, take to the woods. It's what he did last time. He knows the area well, the public forest in north Georgia and into Tennessee. I'd focus there."

"Tim, leave it alone. You know you can't be involved."

She turned to look at him when she said it, but he'd already left.

* * *

There was a line, imaginary except in Tim's head, defined by his personal rules of engagement which were sketched in roughly around his Marshals oath, a line that he had been dancing with all week. He had one foot firmly across it the night Art was shot. All he had needed then to move the other foot over was Raylan's help navigating Harlan territory to facilitate a meeting with Darryl Crowe, Jr., something that had to happen within the narrow timeframe available to them. But Raylan had denied him the opportunity, waved Tim back behind that line and pulled Kendal Crowe's mother up to it instead. Tim had watched, frustrated, boots kicking at the dirt by the line until he got the news that Wendy Crowe had been shoved over it. She was now a killer and all the self-defense bullshit in the report was just that – bullshit. He felt badly for her and was still angry about it – she just wasn't the type to pull the trigger unless desperate. They'd made her desperate, changed her life forever, and for what? Some messed up idea of what Art would want. Tim would've gladly put down Darryl Crowe, Jr. and saved her the pain.

A day and two grenades later he found himself there again, toes right up against that imaginary line. His truck was parked in the lot the day Heywood Humphrey started lobbing grenades at him. Looking at it, the damage to the back gate and the right rear panel, and the new chip in the back window from the blast, that was all the gentle nudge he needed to put that foot over the line again, a light brush of anger on the back of his neck added to the pressure already in place when Heywood Humphrey tried to kill him.

He loved his truck – not like he loved his buddies from the regiment or his mom or his neighbor, the one he couldn't stop thinking about these days, or his own life for that matter, but it was his, that truck, and it was important to him, and insurance money wasn't ever going to make it good as new again. It pissed him off.

He stepped over, both feet now firmly on the far side of that line.

He needed to get to Atlanta this weekend to see Max but there was something else that needed doing first. Heywood Humphrey had a reckoning coming.

The number he pulled up and dialed was one of his primary contacts, a good friend. He was happy when his call was answered after just a single ring. "Hey, asshole, what're you up to today?" he asked after his buddy finished yelling obscenities into the phone. "I need a favor."

The reply had him grinning. Running his fingers along the puncture marks and scratches marring the gate of his truck, he made his request, finished the conversation and hung up, then climbed in, backed out of his spot and went to run some errands.

* * *

"Look, just take the fucking phone," said Tim, holding out the offending piece of equipment to Jo. He'd picked her up a burner like Max's, hoping to be able to keep in touch with her while he was gone.

"But people will call me on it."

"Not if you don't give them your number."

"Why do I need a phone?"

"You don't. _I_ need you to have a phone."

"Oh. Well, in that case." She accepted it.

"Tell me you know how to use it."

"Fuck off."

"You fuck off," he said and kissed her. "I'm hoping I'll be back tomorrow, probably late though."

"Where are you off to this time?"

"Another hunting trip then down to Atlanta to check on a friend."

"You say 'hunting trip' and I hear 'don't ask.'"

"So don't ask." He pointed to the phone. "I put my number on there for you."

"For _me?"_

"Didn't I say fuck off already?"

She never seemed terribly concerned that his tail wasn't wagging, held him still a moment with a look then started singing, _"Hey Joe, where you going with that…?"_

He kissed her again to stop her finishing the line.

* * *

Tim had dropped the suggestion about Heywood Humphrey's possible whereabouts, counting on Rachel to send out a request asking the locals to focus on the roads through the forested area between Tennessee and Georgia. He had a hunch and he was back home packing based on that hunch.

Heywood and his friends had been free with their stories while they drank beer with Tim, showing him their favorite hunting areas on a good geologist's topographical map and pointing out the locations of some abandoned back-country cabins that they took advantage of on either side of the Georgia/Tennessee border for weekend off-season shooting. There was a confident gloating in their talk, descriptions of how tricky the terrain was, how difficult it would be for the authorities to find them there in that heavily forested and mountainous region. Of course, they didn't know at the time that they were talking to a Deputy US Marshal, and they didn't know that he was a former Army Ranger and that part of his training was twenty-two grinding days at Camp Merrill in North Georgia, trekking over that very same terrain, hungry, exhausted and cold.

Tim was looking forward to revisiting the area with warm clothes, some delicious MREs, a small GPS unit, a good map and compass, and a friend, another former Ranger. It seemed a luxury. Give or take, it was a four hour drive to Cleveland, Tennessee and that's where Tim was meeting his buddy, Ryan Creswell. Ryan was likely already in his truck on his way south. Tim hoped to get a lead on Heywood Humphrey, a starting point, before he had to meet Ryan, otherwise it might be a wasted trip. They'd have to settle then for beer and a burger and then a night up talking and sharing a bottle of Jameson in a cheap roadside motel.

Ryan and Tim were in the same battalion together, same platoon, joined and left at the same time. Ryan lived now just north of Richmond, Virginia, and worked for a private military company, enjoying keeping his fingers in it, and he was happy to share his weekend and help a buddy. He also had access to gear that Tim needed if he was going night hunting, some decent night vision equipment and laser sights.

It was going to be like old times.

The call came through from Rachel just after lunch, a location on Heywood Humphrey's vehicle abandoned on the side of a road in the Cherokee National Forest, called in by a Tennessee trooper. Tim grinned when he recognized the location, threw his gear behind the seat and headed for the interstate.

* * *

 


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

The Virginia plates caught his eye. Tim pulled into a gas station on the east side of Cleveland, Tennessee on highway 64 and up to a pump next to Ryan's truck. His buddy came out the door of the station when Tim stepped down to fill up. They saw each other at the same time, grinned.

"Yo, dude."

"Yo, dude, back."

They both started laughing, met halfway for a hug and some sarcasm.

"You've pimped your ride," said Tim, the grin holding, gesturing at the shiny new Ford.

"Oh, now, all the plastic surgery in the world couldn't perform that kinda magic. This one's fresh off the assembly line."

"What happened to the old beater?"

"Fucking dropped a tranny."

"Ouch."

"It's good to see you, buddy. Been a while."

"Been stupid crazy at work." Tim decided the details of that statement could wait for a beer. "I appreciate you coming. Did you get the gear?"

"'Course I got the gear. It wasn't a problem. Your timing is brilliant. I've been kicking around the past month waiting for another contract. You can only do so much working out and range time. I'm coming with you, by the way, whatever it is you're up to. I brought extra equipment. Brought some extra help too."

"Uh…"

Another man stepped out of Ryan's truck, on cue, nodded a greeting. Ryan dropped an arm around Tim's shoulders and pulled him over to introduce him.

"Do you know this guy? He can't help that he's first batt, but other than that he's okay."

Tim's smile broadened. "Shit, Wilkie? Fuck, dude, haven't seen you since Ranger School."

"You don't look like you've put on a pound since graduation." Chris Wilkie shook Tim's hand then pulled him in for a hug.

"Jesus, how long's it been?" said Tim. "And where've you been hiding?"

"I haven't been hiding. I just wasn't banished to the far side of the fucking continent like you two. You must've really fucked up in RIP for them to ship you all the way out there just so they wouldn't have to look at you again."

"That's God's country out there," said Ryan. "Me and Tim, we're that special."

"Fucking special, all right. That means rain-resistant, doesn't it? You haven't lost the pasty-white yet."

"Poor boy." Ryan shook his head. "He's still jealous that he didn't get to wrestle any grizzlies. All he got to do was lie around fucking sunning himself."

"How long you been out?" Tim asked. "I never heard a thing."

"After my contract – didn't re-up. Ryan tells me you ended up with the sniper platoon."

"What with the rain and this cabin-fevered asshole, I was fucking climbing the walls. And my platoon sergeant said, 'Look, a sniper,' and taught me how shoot an M110." Tim patted Ryan's shoulder. "I owe it all to this guy."

"I fucking believe it. He'd drive me up the walls." Chris dropped his head. "He _is_ driving me up the walls."

The grin wouldn't quit, Tim was happy for a taste of the regiment. "So you two work together? Fuck, the Marshals Service is looking good today." He turned back to the pumps. "I gotta fill up then let's grab a bite. I'm not heading out till later. We got time."

Ryan and Chris followed Tim to his truck. It was hard to miss the damage on the back and they all stopped for a look.

"What the fuck happened?" Ryan crouched down to examine the pockmarks on the tailgate.

"Collateral damage."

"Looks like you backed into a herd of very short, very angry unicorns."

"Don't call them short," said Tim. "That was my mistake." He stepped past them to start pumping gas. "You guys need to move to Kentucky. That's where all the excitement is these days. I was dealing with an IED a few weeks back, then I was in a real live Mexican narco shootout, and now, fuck, unicorn attacks, and grenades…"

Ryan's head popped up over the tailgate. "The unicorns had grenades?"

"They're organized, man. It's a regular uprising. They think they can run the country better."

"Probably can."

Chris couldn't keep a straight face, he was trying. "Well, if you're hunting grenade-launching unicorns, I'm definitely in."

The offer didn't surprise Tim. He'd do the same. "Hey, I appreciate the gear, but this is Marshal business…sort of. You really shouldn't be…"

"Dude," said Ryan, "we're bored. And I didn't drive eight hours to say hi and have a burger. We're coming along. Can't you fucking deputize us or something?"

"I think we lost that executive power sometime around the turn of the last century." Tim wiped a hand across his mouth, thought about it briefly. "But I'd appreciate the company. Can you be discreet?"

Chris and Ryan nodded happily, a couple of boys with firewood and matches. "Oh, yeah, sure, discreet. No problem. Speaking of discreet, let Chris finish filling your truck. Come see what I got for you."

Ryan had an extra-long cab on his truck, opened the back and unzipped two duffels and moved out of the way so Tim could get a look. Tim was properly appreciative.

"I love you, man."

"I know. I'm fucking awesome."

Four AR-15s with laser sights, helmets with night vision gear attached – more toys than Tim had hoped for. He chuckled happily while he fished through the bags.

"I brought extra in case you had someone with you, and…"

Ryan reached into his pocket and pulled out the final item, the cherry for the top, a tin of tobacco, Copenhagen. Tim pretended to wipe away a tear. "Dude, you remembered. I'm touched."

Ryan opened it. "Dip?"

"Haven't touched the stuff since I left." He took a bit and tucked it under his lip, raised his eyebrows. "Next, you'll be getting all maudlin and telling me war stories."

* * *

The waitress was disappointed when the three men seated at a table in her section didn't order any beer, just water and soda and food. They left her a good tip though and left Tim's truck in the parking lot and drove east into the Cherokee National Forest.

Tim was watching the odometer when they turned off the main road, almost missed seeing the Town Car with the Kentucky plates parked on the dirt shoulder. Annoyed, more at his lack of surprise than anything, he puffed out a breath, pointed to it. "Look, someone left us a marker. Might as well pull in behind it."

"That's an expensive marker," said Ryan, slowing down and sliding his truck onto the shoulder. "Odd car to find out here."

"It's Raylan."

"Who's Raylan?"

"I work with him. I think he's here to make sure I don't fucking do something stupid, or maybe he's here to help. I wouldn't care to guess."

"You sure it's him?"

"I'm sure."

"He wears a cowboy hat?"

"It's his shtick."

Tim stepped out of the truck and walked up to the driver's side of the car, rapped his knuckles on the window hoping he'd catch Raylan napping. The window rolled down and Raylan tipped his hat up.

"Hey, Tim. What a surprise seeing you on this back road in Tennessee at the very, exact spot where they found Heywood Humphrey's truck. They towed it already. It's in impound."

"Heywood in it?"

"Nope. Sorry you missed all the excitement. What d'you say we go for a beer?"

"Raylan, tell me you're not here to stop me doing what I'm doing."

"And if I am?"

"I got two buddies with AR-15s saying otherwise." Tim thumbed back at the truck.

"Well, that's a strong argument. Just what are you all planning on doing?"

Tim tilted his head. "I'm just going hiking, Raylan. We're all members of the 4-H club. We get together for meetings and projects every Saturday night."

Raylan rolled up the window and opened his door and climbed out, stretching a little. "4-H, huh? What is that – head, heart, hands and…health, if I remember correctly?" He counted each word on a finger.

"Really, is that what it stands for? I thought it was Heywood Humphrey hunting."

"That's only three."

" _Huh."_ Tim put a little extra emphasis on the 'h' at the beginning of the word.

"There we go, got it to four. Bit of a stretch."

"It's not a book club. We don't tend to pay much attention to the word count."

"Just the bullet count?"

"Yep."

Turning his head to eye the truck parked behind him, Raylan took a moment to consider the situation. Tim watched, waited patiently. There were only two ways this standoff was going to resolve itself – either Raylan helped or he hindered. He just wasn't a sideline kind of guy. Either way, Tim wasn't going to let it stop him.

"Did Rachel send you?" Tim asked.

"She seconded the motion."

"So this was all your idea, coming here to keep an eye on me?"

"Surprisingly, yes. I know you're still mad about Darryl Crowe. I'm worried it might be clouding your judgment."

"Quite the opposite."

Raylan nodded, watching Tim. His eyes slid over to the truck again. "Let me meet your friends," he said, started toward the other vehicle. He stopped when both doors opened at the same time and Tim's buddies stepped out.

"Guys, this is Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens. Raylan, this is Ryan Creswell and Chris Wilkie."

"You serve together?"

"Me and Ryan did, same platoon. Chris was with the first batt down in Savannah. But he's a Ranger, too. That makes him practically family."

Raylan studied all three of them. "Before I decide what I'm gonna do, I need to know – what are you gonna do with your catch…if you catch him?"

"A good scare and a holding cell in Cleveland or Chattanooga or wherever they'll have him and maybe something like attempted murder charges…if he cooperates. If not, I'm thinking a bullet to the head and I'll figure out what to say to the locals while I wait for them to show up to get the body. I'm gonna get him, Raylan, one way or another."

There was nothing Raylan could do and Tim knew it. There was nothing Raylan hadn't already done and Tim knew it. The sun was running away from them, hiding out down low among the trees, watching. Tim waved his buddies to the back of the truck to start loading up their gear and walked over to join them.

"You can come with us if you want, or you can wait here," he called over his shoulder to Raylan. "Doesn't matter to me."

"I'll come with."

"We've got a bit of a hike. If he's where I think he is, it'll be about eight kilometers in and not an easy walk. And before you say it, I know they're planning on sweeping the area tomorrow, but who knows what that asshole's got waiting for us. He'd be just the type to take out as many as he could before giving up. I want to fucking surprise the bastard. No one gets hurt."

"Except him."

"Maybe."

"You're going now, in the dark?"

Ryan popped his head up from digging in the back of the truck, grinned widely and confidently. "That's what we do best," he said.

* * *

They had been hiking for almost an hour when Ryan stopped and pulled out the night optics gear. It was getting impossible to see the terrain. They'd walked a west-facing hill first, had the advantage of dwindling twilight, but the forest crowding around them and then the drop beyond the first ridge pitched them into darkness quickly. There was no light left, no moonlight to provide differentiation in the landscape, no grays, just black. Tim, Ryan and Chris checked their heading, GPS against a compass and terrain map, double redundancy and worth the time, then they donned their NODs and trudged on. Raylan was struggling to keep up in the dark, stumbling on the uneven terrain. The second time he tripped, Tim turned and walked back to offer some advice.

"It's not you – it's hard walking with NODs," he said. "You can't trust your depth perception – these things fuck it all up, flatten everything. Holes and dips look smaller than they are and trip you up 'cause you're not expecting it. Slopes look shallower. Any area in the shadows is going to be difficult to gauge. Makes it easier to see the leprechauns." Tim shrugged. "You get used to it."

"Leprechauns?"

"Just making sure you're listening."

He took Raylan's headgear, dropping him back into blackness and illustrating the need for the night optics. He checked the settings, gave it back. "I've set your focus on the farthest distance – things up close will be blurry but you need to see clearly farther away in order to aim. You do up close stuff by feel. Got it?"

Raylan adjusted the night vision gear on his face, huffed and planted his hands on his hips. "Shit, this is annoying. Did you have to work with these much?"

"Every fucking mission. Imagine my surprise when I became a Marshal and discovered I could shoot any color target, not just the green ones."

"Remind me never to wear green at the office."

Tim grinned; Raylan could see it just fine through the blurry and green shades of the night optics.

"Try to keep up."

"Don't be a shit."

"I'll pick you up on the way out if you fall behind. Just stay put if you do, don't wander off and get lost."

"I've decided I hate Rangers, current and former."

"Take a fucking number and get in line. You're years behind the Taliban."

There were a couple quiet chuckles of agreement from the forest ahead.

"Before I take another step with this stupid night vision shit, tell me something, Tim – are you sure you know where you're going?"

"You didn't meet this guy, Raylan. I spent most of a day with him. He's at home in these woods. I figured for sure it'd be me volunteering to hunt his ass out here to drag him into court, so I took the time to map all the cabins he and his buddies told me about when I delivered that subpoena. They loved to brag." Tim waved an arm, a sweep of green. "There's only one cabin they mentioned this side of the Georgia line and I'm pretty sure of my coordinates. Besides, don't know if you've noticed but we're actually following a bit of a trail. Apparently Heywood's been up here a few times and probably someone before him."

"This is a trail?"

"Sort of. We'll get off it when we get closer. I don't trust him. Knowing this asshole, he likely booby-trapped it near the cabin."

"Shit."

"Night's a-wasting. Let's go."

* * *

"All due respect, Raylan, I don't think you know night ops as well as I do." A few hours later Tim and Raylan were arguing quietly within sight of the cabin. "You're likely to get somebody killed stumbling around getting used to the NOD. I don't want to get shot in the back when you trip with your gun out. Stay here or I'll cuff you to a tree like you did Boyd."

"You think you could?"

"Don't make me try."

Raylan looked he might, but in the end he held up a hand halting the pissing contest. "I'll wait here."

"It won't take long." Tim turned and started toward the cabin speaking quietly to the other two. "I'll take lead. I know what I'm looking for."

"It'd be nice to have the fourth man, someone watching our backs."

"Raylan can keep an eye out from there."

"You trust him?"

"With this, I do."

Raylan watched them move quietly toward the cabin and up onto the porch. They stacked on the left side of the door and Tim reached out a hand and tried the door knob. It was unlocked. He brought the barrel of his rifle up, set the stock tight against his cheek, flicked on the laser sight and pushed the door open and stepped through, Ryan and Chris following quickly, one moving right, one left. They disappeared inside.

* * *

Heywood Humphrey was a snorer, and arrogant. He lay flat on his back on the floor of the cabin, mattress and sleeping bag, mouth open, a shotgun lying along his right side. Tim approached the sleeping man confident that the room was cleared, and cleared properly, trusted that his buddies had his back. He put a foot and his weight on the shotgun, flicked the safety switch on his rifle and hooked it by the strap over his shoulder then he pulled out his handgun and crouched down beside Heywood, keeping an eye and a sight on him, and searched around under the sleeping bag and pillow for other weapons. There was a handgun tucked up beside Heywood's head. Tim pocketed it and kept looking. Eventually, satisfied, he picked up the shotgun and backed away, letting Chris and Ryan move in to cover him.

Then he kicked Heywood hard in the leg to wake him up. It felt good. The yelp was impressive.

They could see him clearly, but he couldn't see them. He reached for his shotgun and Tim kicked him again, this time in the head and it stunned him.

"US Marshals. On your stomach, asshole. I'm worried I'll shoot you if I have to look at your face."

It was nice to see the arrogance in full-flight, the void filled by fear. The man rolled over and reached under his pillow and Tim stomped hard on his hand for another yelp.

"I got your gun," he said. "Don't be stupid 'cause I really wanna put a bullet through your skull. Arms over your head."

Tim kneeled on Heywood's back, pulled a zip-tie from his pocket and trussed up his catch.

Ryan snorted loudly. "Don't you Marshals have proper fucking handcuffs?"

"Fur-lined," Tim said, standing up and nudging Heywood with his toe, grinning at the spasm in reaction. "But I left them at my girlfriend's."

"You mean your boyfriend's?"

"No, sorry, I meant _your_ girlfriend's."

"Really? Shit, I can hardly wait to get home."

Chris was chuckling, enjoying Ryan and Tim's banter.

Heywood was looking at blackness, everywhere, still confused about what was going on, but he caught hints in the words floating by. "Is that that fucking little shit Marshal talking?"

"That's me." Tim sang it back, enough facetious to make it expressive through the dark.

"You're a fucking coward!"

"This from the guy who lobs hand grenades… Fuck you."

He walked back to the door and called out to Raylan. "Dinner's ready."

* * *

 


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

It was decided it would be best if Chris and Ryan left before daylight, especially since Tim now had Raylan for company and backup – less explaining to the locals when the Marshals led their fugitive back to civilization in the morning. Dragging Heywood out of the forest in the dark was an unnecessary effort and Tim was content enough to wait.

"Save me some coffee," he called to their backs as Ryan and Chris disappeared among the trees. They were still using night vision gear, all of them, and he watched them for a bit, green figures moving in a green landscape, then he turned and went back inside with Raylan and Heywood.

With just the three of them left in the cabin Tim felt comfortable shedding a little light on the situation. He pulled a flashlight out of his pack and stuffed the helmet in. The beam was intense after the pale and easy green, intense for Heywood too coming abruptly out of the blackness. Tim ran the beam around the room then walked over to where he'd noticed a lantern sitting on a shelf, battery operated. It lit up the cabin in halogen white.

Tim shared a worn expression with Raylan sitting comfortably in the only chair at a rough and old table. The two of them raised their eyebrows at the same time, a bit of _well look at us_ , both grinned.

"This'll be a story to tell my daughter when she's grown," said Raylan. "I saw green men in the forest."

Raylan was holding out the gear he'd borrowed; Tim stepped closer to collect it. "I told you," he said, "leprechauns."

"I'll have a fucking story to tell my lawyer, you mother-fucking assholes." Heywood could finally see who had roped and tied him so neatly, ankles and wrists bound, still lying on the mattress.

Tim glanced at his catch, walked back to his pack and pulled out a roll of duck tape and threw it over beside Heywood. "Shut your fucking mouth or I'll tape it shut. Your choice."

"Fuck you!"

Tim made a move toward him but Raylan stopped him, an arm out from across the room.

"Nah, Tim, let him talk. We've got him dead-to-rights so I don't mind listening to his bullshit for an hour. Attempted murder of a federal officer – that means a lot to us, Mr. Humphrey. You have no idea how much."

"Attempted murder…what the fuck?" Heywood spat the words out, glared at Tim. "You hardly got a scratch on you. Those grenades didn't land anywhere the fuck near you. You were hiding in the front seat of your fancy car like a fucking pussy."

"You got that?" asked Tim.

"Yep." Raylan wagged his phone.

"Can I tape his mouth shut now?"

"Be my guest." Raylan stood up to help. "I thought for sure you were gonna kill him," he said to Tim, pulling out his sidearm and pressing the barrel firmly against Heywood's forehead, stilling him.

Tim ripped off a piece of tape and slapped it across Heywood's mouth. "It's still an option." He backed over to the door and sat against it down on the floor, leaving the chair available for Raylan.

"Must be good friends to do this for you," said Raylan after a time, after Heywood had settled down again, settled into his fate and lay quietly where they left him.

"Ryan and me, we went all the way through together, ended up at Fort Lewis out of RIP, same platoon, same rifle squad. I was almost disappointed when they told me to report to the sniper platoon after a few years even though it was what I'd always wanted – I was so used to the bullshit coming out of his mouth, I thought I'd miss it aimed at me all day every day…" Tim finished the tale with a little smile tugging. "I always joke that I got so good at climbing walls because he'd drive me up them, fucking drive me crazy some days, and that's why they picked me."

"Picked you for what? I don't get it."

"It's part of the sniper training, learning how to climb buildings. Handy skill."

"I guess that makes sense."

They woke a moth, tempted it with the light to come out of its cold weather nook and they watched it flicker frantically around the lantern, casting its shadow like a behemoth on the walls, endless circles. Humphrey started snoring again, quietly through his nose. The sound pulled Tim's attention away from the moth and he watched his prisoner, amazed he could sleep, a bit of admiration for the practicality of it.

Raylan shifted in his seat finally, cast his own shadows. "Tell me, Tim. Would things have gone down differently if I wasn't here putting a damper on your party?"

Tim thought about the question, circled it. Would he have gone there? He always imagined questions like this as something physical because life for him was physical, action and reaction. It was crossing a line or not crossing a line and he often thought that maybe he was always on the wrong side of it looking to cross back over to the right side. But tonight he considered that maybe the 'right side' was actually a tightly guarded circle. There was no right side – in the spatial sense – and left side, but an inside and an outside. It never seemed straightforward to him, what he should do and what he shouldn't, so maybe that line wasn't straight, the one he danced around, maybe it was curved and he circled it, constantly on the wrong side looking for a reason or an opening to get back inside, constantly surprised when it turned away from where he thought it should be going. Maybe 'get back inside' wasn't right either, maybe he was never there to begin with, maybe none of them were, no one he knew. And that circle felt like it was shrinking this week, impossible for him to fit into and he turned from it.

Another yawn enveloped him, pulled him away from his thoughts.

"Fuck it," he said finally. "I shouldn't have sat down. It's the kiss of death. I never feel tired until I sit down."

He slid a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the tin of tobacco that Ryan had given him, held it up for Raylan to see then opened it and helped himself to a small dip, tucked it under his lip and casually lobbed the tin to Raylan. Raylan caught it and turned it so the type was facing the right way. His face was inscrutable as he examined the tin, tapped a finger on it, but he opened it eventually, dipping with practiced ease.

Tim chuckled. "You whore."

"Takes one to know one." Raylan turned the tin in his hands a few times, ran his thumb over the top then tossed it back. "I didn't know you were a dipper…and a skinny dipper at that."

"Hilarious. You are just too funny."

"It's four in the morning. Everything's funny."

"Ryan brought it. It's a running joke." Tim yawned again, slid the tin back in his pocket. "It's a good buzz when your sleep routine is blown to shit. We all dipped. Can't smoke on a mission. Imagine all these little red dots coming over the hill for the Taliban to target on." He mimicked holding a rifle up, looking through a scope.

"Night ops?"

"And most of our training too, late nights. I'm still..." He was too tired to bother finishing the sentence. "Anyway, wasn't hard for me, quitting the stuff. I never touched it again after I got out, until tonight – so much other shit going on, I didn't miss it."

"Not an addictive personality."

"I'm not sure how to take that."

Raylan worked his mouth a bit, spat expertly, grinned. "I got my college roommate hooked on dipping. We used to think it was funny watching the girls squirm when we spit."

* * *

There was a moment, more than halfway back to the road at the point where they could hear the locals out with the dogs working their way in toward them and Heywood decided to make a run for it, a moment where Tim lifted his gun out of the thigh holster he was wearing, aimed and thought about it one last time. He didn't bother flicking off the safety though.

Raylan just watched. "Didn't bring your official Marshals sidearm for this trip?" he said. "Should I be concerned?"

"I don't like the laser sights on the Glock."

Raylan nodded. "Are you gonna chase him? I'm sure as hell not. He's your problem."

"Fine." Tim handed Raylan his pack and jogged down the slope. "Meet you back at the car."

"Don't get lost."

"Fuck off."

He could hear Raylan chuckling.

It didn't take long to catch up with Humphrey – he was a woodsman but not much of a runner. Tim pulled his sidearm again when they were face-to-face, waved it in the direction he wanted them to walk. Heywood was defiant, looked like he might run again and Tim willed him to do it, lifted the gun level with the man's chest and smiled a not-so-friendly smile. Two state troopers and a game warden from the area walked into view.

"Are you Deputy Gutterson? A Marshal in a cowboy hat told us to look out for you down this way."

* * *

"I met this girl," Tim said, opening a new conversation. He sat back in the booth and waited for the words to sink in.

He and Max were at their favorite diner again, chowing their way through an all-day/all-night breakfast special, three eggs, sausages, bacon, home fries, toast, juice and coffee, the usual, talking away the after-midnight drowsy. Through experience, Tim had found that if he got Max focused on something simple, something immediate, he could usually get him to find the road out of crazy town and then he could get some real information from him. It was work this visit, though, more than usual. Phil's murder had thrown Max into a mental tailspin and all he would talk about was patrolling the jungle and enemy eyes watching and the need to stay awake. It didn't help that the man's hearing was blown to shit from sitting security for the artillery in Vietnam, only thirty feet away when the cannons let loose.

Max sat chewing thoughtfully, looked up finally and said, "She pregnant?"

So he'd heard. "No, asshole."

"There's a woman here – everyone knows her – she'll do it with you if you ask her and bring her a bottle of something for payment."

"That's really fucking nice, Max, makes me all gooey inside."

"Hey, I got needs."

"Yeah, me too, I need you to not tell me about that. Jesus, I've shared a bottle with you."

Max's grin was loony bin, every line of it. "Fine. Tell me about yours then."

"I don't think I want to now. That's like fucking… It's completely fucking different."

"You're a bit touchy. You must like her."

"She's a character."

"That's it? That's what you're all uptight about?"

"Yeah, okay, so I like her."

"You sleep with her yet?"

"Maybe."

"You slept with her."

"Yeah, okay. I slept with her."

"She pretty?"

"I think so."

"Well, don't screw it up like the last one."

"That one was screwed before we ever fucked."

Tim waited while Max finished laughing, then took the conversation where he wanted it to go. "Tell me what the gang's been saying about the guy that did Phil."

"You going after him?"

"I'm gonna look into it, make some calls. I don't want you going after him, Max."

"I'll take you to see Mr. Gator. He'll tell you."

"Mr. Gator?"

"The guy I was telling you about, the one up from Orlando who said the same thing happened there."

"I gotta be back at work in six hours," said Tim, looking at this watch, "I gotta leave like...now. Eat up, buddy. I'll be back next Saturday – you can take me to see him then."

* * *

Tim didn't bother going home first. Back in Lexington just before eight, he drove straight to the court house to start the week.

"Glad you found Heywood," said Rachel when she saw him. She examined him carefully, sleep-deprived eyes, wrinkled shirt and dirty boots. "Glad no one got hurt."

"We were careful."

"You and...Raylan?"

"I won't lie to you if you ask me a direct question."

"The AUSA thinks it's going to be an easy court case with all of his prior run-ins with law enforcement and then the surveillance tapes and then the stash of grenades they found at his house yesterday."

"Grenades? Is that all?"

"Hardly. Do you want to see the list?"

"Sure."

"Staff meeting first." She pointed to the conference room.

Afterward he wrote up his report, all the details of his and Raylan's exploits capturing their fugitive, set it on Art's desk and then fished through his desk's stack of current warrants and possible sightings and unreturned phone calls.

A little later Rachel walked out of Art's office with the report open, reading. "Just you and Raylan, huh? Heywood thinks there were at least four of you."

"The man's pride's hurting that we took him so easy – wants it to be something bigger than it was. He couldn't see a thing in the dark. And it was solid dark, can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark. Humphrey's full of shit."

"That's what Raylan said."

"Well, then…"

"What did you do after Raylan dropped you at your truck?"

"I had breakfast with some old friends who were down there hunting…coincidently. Then after that I went on down to Atlanta and had another breakfast with Max."

"How's Max?"

"Still crazy."

"When did you get home?"

Tim wiped a hand across his mouth. "Didn't."

"Then go home now," said Rachel. "You look like shit." She turned away and headed to Art's office. "See you tomorrow."

"How's Art doing?"

Rachel stopped, turned back. "Leslie says he should be home in a couple days."

"Poor Leslie."

They both grinned.

* * *

"Every time you come in here you look worse."

"Every time I come in here you look better."

Art sat up a little straighter, awkwardly pushing himself up higher on the bed and rearranging pillows. He waved Tim off when he stepped over to help.

"Grab a chair," he said impatiently. "I'm fine. You, on the other hand, look like you're gonna fall down any minute."

"I'm alright. I just need some sleep."

"Rachel tells me you and Raylan," Art grunted, still settling, "had some fun with Mr. Hand Grenade down in Georgia."

"Tennessee – you're missing all the fun lying around in here all day."

"Don't remind me. You go see your homeless friend after that?"

"You've got good intel."

"Rachel wasn't my pick just because she's the prettiest." Art reached for the coffee sitting on his side table, made a face when he had a sip. "Shit. It's cold." He held it out for Tim.

"I don't want it."

"Go get us some fresh and then tell me what's up with this Atlanta thing."

Most other people Tim would've told to fuck off.

* * *

He watched her reflected in the glass of the kitchen window against the dark – she let herself in, opened the door and stepped tentatively inside and stopped, tilted her head listening, then she peered around the wall into his living room, empty, and turned in a circle and walked to the bottom of the stairs and peered up. The music was loud, heavy, fast. She couldn't hear him when he set the slide from his handgun and his cleaning brush down on the table or when he slid his chair back and walked the squeaky hall floor and stopped right behind her. She turned to go into the kitchen and bumped into him and jumped.

"Fuck! Don't scare me like that," she said, the words jetting out loudly, sharply, startled. She would've had to yell anyway to be heard over the stereo.

He grinned and tucked his fingers through the belt loops of her jeans and pulled her tightly against him and kissed her and two-left-feet waltzed her stumbling back toward the living room and down onto the couch. It didn't take him long to get her and himself undressed and the music was aggressive so the sex was too, but fun, and she laughed when they lay panting after and said loudly in his ear, warm, "Is this Suicide Silence we're listing to?"

He had stopped assuming, so it seemed natural that she'd know the band.

"This one, yeah."

"So romantic. I'm worried what this might say about your mood."

He kissed her neck from one side to the other then got up to turn down the volume. She pulled him back onto the couch with her and the song ended. The next one was a little quieter.

"It's a mix some guy in my old platoon made up. Everyone's favorite band got on it – there's even some Johnny Cash and some Brad Paisley..."

"And Foo Fighters," she said, naming the next group.

"Yep. See? Nothing to do with my mood."

"Depends on if you were out fighting foo with that gun of yours."

She wiggled around until she was lying on top of him and hummed along with the song while he ran his hands on her skin, caught in the spider's web.

"I'm glad you're back," she said. "I feel like company on my pillow tonight."

"How about my pillow instead?"

"Beats getting dressed."

* * *

 


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

It was equally easier and harder having Jo at his house for the night, easier because he didn't have to reorient himself when he woke in the dark, harder because when he did wake in the dark he couldn't resist the bad habit of getting immediately out of bed, giving up on sleep without a fight. At Jo's house, in her bed, he would lay still awhile before carefully untangling and slipping out from under the sheet, allow sleep a chance to catch up with him again, and sometimes, to his surprise, it would. But in his room the restlessness in the night was a bell and he was Pavlov's dog, back at the kitchen table at two in the morning finishing cleaning his gun and sipping a bourbon.

Tim was thinking about the weekend past while he put away his cleaning kit and poured a second drink, thinking about Raylan's comment that Ryan must be a good friend to pull up at a moment's notice and drive eight hours, no details requested or needed, to help in a borderline illegal hunt for a wanted felon.

And more, if Tim had asked.

Ryan would've helped bury the body. And that's what it came down to. That's what Raylan was saying, was wondering aloud.

There was a particularly drunken evening in barracks, after Ranger school, after his fourth combat rotation, just before he was moved to the sniper platoon, an evening where Tim and his rifle squad were having the post-combat-party party, the second night back before everyone splintered off for block leave, and they were discussing, in raucous and unfiltered terms, the difference between a friend and an acquaintance.

"An acquaintance wouldn't help you bury the body," said Ryan, always joking and yet at the same time deadly serious, flat on the floor balancing an open bottle of Jameson on his chest.

They had all soberly, a sober you can only feel when you're dead drunk, agreed. Tim knew he would help Ryan bury the body, no questions asked, any time, any place, and Ryan would do the same for him. The confidence was like breathing, it just came with living.

Tim was sifting through the names and faces of the other people in his life, wondering if the same could be said for anyone else he knew – Raylan, Art, Rachel, Chris – and that's when Jo tiptoed down the stairs in one of his shirts and sat like a cat in the chair opposite him and reached across the small table and set her hand on his head and dragged it down his face. When she was done and her hand landed on the tabletop, he was grinning for her.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"You're like a cat," she said. "You act like you don't need anybody, but you sure like to be petted."

"I was thinking the same thing about you."

"No, you weren't."

"Maybe not quite so poetically."

She considered the statement. "Okay. I'll buy that."

Jo walked her fingers across the table and over the handgun he'd been cleaning. "That's a lethal-looking piece of hardware."

"Yep."

"Is it yours or is it work's?"

"It's mine." Tim had a lock box on the table that he opened and he pulled out another handgun. "This is my Marshal issue – it's a Glock."

"Oh, yeah, of course. I could tell right away," she said, liberally facetious. "It's black, more official." She picked up his glass and helped herself and he went to the cupboard for another. She was watching him as he filled it and sat back down. "Do you ever stay in bed all night?"

"Yeah, sometimes. Working fugitives for the Marshals Service isn't exactly a nine-to-five job."

"No, but it doesn't require you getting up at 2am to clean your gun, either. Who were you hunting this weekend?"

"The guy who threw the grenades at me."

"You caught him?"

Tim nodded, new glass full and resting on his lip.

"Then why are you angry still?"

He took a mouthful and set the glass down. He didn't bother denying that he was still angry. She wasn't one to lie to. "Because he's not dead and somebody else is."

"Who is?"

"Oh, I got a list," he said, without emotion. "How's the new job?"

"It pays the bills. Do you keep it written down and tucked under your pillow?"

"Do I keep…what?"

"Your list? Is it your pillow book?"

"What the fuck are you on about?"

"Sei Shōnagon, Japanese lady in a Japanese court hundreds of years ago, she wrote the famous _Pillow Book_ – a journal, lists, gossip about events, tragedies in her life, all equally treated, laid out without passion. It was considered _not cool_ then to be emotional in your writing."

"Well, it's kinda hard to be emotional with a list."

"Yeah. Isn't that convenient?"

He looked at her blankly for a moment or two then she dragged him back to bed and he curled around her.

* * *

"Range?" Tim stood at Nelson's desk, end of the day. It had been a blissfully uneventful day, from the morning coffee straight through lunch and into the afternoon, a day to catch your breath and catch up on the dull details.

Nelson's head snapped up from the keyboard. "Uh, yeah, okay. Um…" He looked around the office for approval, and finding no one disapproving, he stood up and shut down his computer and followed Tim out the door.

"Sorry we couldn't start yesterday," said Tim, in the hall waiting for the elevator.

"It's okay. Rachel explained what happened. So you brought the guy in, huh? I thought you weren't supposed to."

"So? My bad." It wasn't Tim's intention that it come out like a growl, more a discontented grumble, but the low notes rattled aggressively.

"Well, yeah, I guess. I just…and I know a guy, state police in Tennessee – he's a cousin, distant – and he was happy they didn't have to go out there the next morning, you know, chasing him in the woods, after everything... He said thanks."

"I had a good idea where he'd be."

"Yeah."

Tim led the way out of the courthouse. It was a short walk to the Lexington Police headquarters and exam center, a badge check to get in. Tim held back, pretended to be fussing with the hearing protection, waiting to see what Nelson would do.

"I'll be right with you," he said. "Go ahead."

Then he stood back and watched Nelson set himself up and fire down range, target set to seven yards. Nelson stopped after five rounds, turned to Tim and looked embarrassed by the scrutiny. Tim stepped up to the line and considered his student.

"I know Weaver stance looks good for the cameras and I'm not knocking it – it's up to you if you want to stick with it – but…that's not what they taught you at Glynco, is it?"

Nelson shook his head.

"Modern Isosceles, man, it's taught for a reason. Easy to duplicate. Centered. Balanced. Why'd you switch?"

"Uh…" Nelson set his handgun on the counter. "One of my first postings, there was this senior Marshal and he, uh…"

"He made it look cool."

"Yeah."

"It's cooler if you make your shots."

* * *

Tim didn't go back to the court house afterward. He was restless and walked instead to the hospital to see Art. The visit was an attempt to return something to its place, already a failed endeavor since time stubbornly would not reverse itself, ever, relentlessly stacking days and weeks and months against you.

There was a liquor store on the way and Tim stopped to pick up some bourbon, ducked into a grocery store too, to get some snacks. He walked quickly, everything hurried, purposeful, until he got to the corridor on the floor where Art's room was, then he slowed, hesitating just outside the door briefly. An aggressive tiredness came on him now that he was here. He reached out and knocked, opened the door and grinned.

"Hey, boss."

"Tim. You're still alive."

"Apparently so are you."

"I'm going home tomorrow. They just want to make sure I can still shit."

"Good luck with that."

"Thanks, I need it."

"Nah, I got what you need," said Tim, pulled his bottle of bourbon from a bag.

"Aw, shit, Tim. Raylan already tried that stunt last week."

"That was last week. This is this week."

"I can't drink. Meds."

"That's why I got you," Tim reached back into the bag and set a matching mini-bottle beside the larger one, "a baby one – it's only 1.7 ounces – to celebrate your release."

Art eyed it. "I'll split it with you."

"Deal."

Tim dumped the water from a glass in the bathroom and poured a mouthful for Art and toasted him with the small bottle.

Art drank it down and licked his lips. "Damn, I miss my life. Someone get me the hell out of here."

They shared a smile.

Art dipped his finger in the glass and ran it around and licked it off, peered in it wistfully now that he was sure it was empty. "You ever do time in a hospital?"

"Once or twice when I was a kid," said Tim. "Once in the Rangers. Never anything very serious though and never very long."

"You're lucky." Art set the glass finally on the table, clearly sorry to let it go. "You keep chasing fugitives like Humphrey by yourself and you might not be so lucky next time."

"Oh, I got it all figured out, Chief. I'll skip the hospital, go straight to the cemetery."

"That's not even funny."

Tim was digging around in the bag again. Art leaned forward to see what he was doing.

"What else you got in there?"

"A chaser." He had bought some non-alcoholic beer, opened two cans and passed one over.

There was an appreciative chuckle from Art. "Leslie's gonna blow if she walks in. You'll be shredded before she notices exactly what it is we're drinking."

Tim turned in his seat and considered the door, swung his chair around so he could keep an eye on it.

"You're helping Nelson, Rachel tells me."

"He'll be fine," said Tim.

"I'm glad he asked you. It was my suggestion."

"He might not be so happy he asked by the time I'm through with him. I had him dry firing most of today. I'm gonna play ball and dummy with him tomorrow. I think he's flinching."

"Ball and dummy?"

"I load his rounds, only he doesn't know if it's a dummy I've loaded or a live one. Should be able to tell for sure if he's twitching on the dummies, anticipating the recoil, you know?"

"Huh." Art was picturing it. "I get it. That's a good idea. Thanks for doing this for him."

"I'd be some kind of idiot not to."

Art took a long drink from his can. It was almost like before, Tim thought, watching him.

"So, talk to me about Humphrey. Why'd you think it was a good idea to chase him yourself?"

Definitely like before. "I wasn't alone."

"That's what Rachel hinted at. Have we got a couple of new deputies in the office that I'm not aware of?"

"Stealth Marshals. Need to know basis."

"Uh-huh."

* * *

It was well into the evening when Tim pulled in at his house, not dark enough yet to hide the chopper prominently displayed on Jo's walkway, a Harley Davidson and a big one. Tim had to admire it – nice bike – got a good look at it walking up to his door. There was no mistaking the emblem painted on the gas tank cover, Charlie and the crossed pistons, iconic colors of The Outlaws, nemesis of the Hells Angels gang. There was some good blues coming from her stereo, voices mixing, a man's and Jo's, easy conversation.

Tim went into his house and opened a beer then he walked to his stereo and cranked up some death metal, the double kick drumming out his message loud and clear through the walls.

* * *

 


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

"I told him not to go over. He decided to anyway when I was in the bathroom – belligerent asshole that he is. Everything's a confrontation with him. Thank you for not shooting him on sight."

Jo touched casually on the night's drama as she stretched alongside Tim in the dark, her skin smooth against his, and he kissed up the inside of her arm reaching to the wall by his head. She rolled over to face him and he imagined her smiling though he couldn't see her face with the lights off, and he felt a bit childish about his behavior that evening.

"I really didn't think you cared that much," she said, laughter beneath the words.

She couldn't see the frown either, the one on Tim's face when he said, "Why would you think that?"

"Because…you're a list." She slid her hand down and petted his cheek. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. It makes it easier to pretend I don't care."

The figure that had finally appeared at Tim's door to complain about his choice of music and the volume he was playing it at, the one attached to the fist pounding on the frame, wasn't who Tim had hoped it would be. It wasn't Jo. Graying hair tied back, vest with more Charlie and pistons sewn into the leather as warning, more tattoos than Tim and Jo combined, jeans, black biker boots, black biker glare, an Outlaw without a doubt – the man had the look. Tim's hand twitched to his hip when he saw him then slipped around behind to the sub-compact he'd slid into the back of his jeans, always prepared.

When he saw Tim, the man leaned into the screen to shout his demands, a hand on either side of Tim's door frame, filling it. "Turn that fucking shit down!"

Tim slowed his approach to a stroll, pushed open the screen forcing the man behind it to back up. The reaction from each, a measured and forced grin, was an instinctive and immediate recognition of the enemy, the thin letter of the law a gaping gulf between them.

"Sorry," Tim yelled over the music. "I didn't hear you."

The man stepped back up to the doorsill, arms spread again, aggressively leaning into Tim's personal space. Tim could read the tattoo running up one arm, _God forgives,_ and down the other, _Outlaws don't._

"I said turn it the fuck down!" He pushed his face in the last few inches, voice rumbling like the engine of his Harley. "You don't want this kind of trouble, kid."

"Neither do you, pops."

"Daddy?" Jo's voice cut through as the track ended, a second or two of quiet.

_Daddy._ _Shit._ Tim hadn't expected that. He swallowed his attitude, backed away, backed into his hallway and into his living room and turned the music down. He left them alone. Later, he listened to the Harley starting up, rumbling off down the street into the distance like thunder passing over and on. And Jo arrived shortly after, steaming up his house like nothing happened.

Tim decided not to think about it until he had to, and he hoped he would never have to. But later, lying relaxed, and with her laughing at him and petting his face, curiosity niggled. "Why didn't you tell me your dad's an Outlaw considering what I do for a living?"

"It's not a secret," she said, lips brushing his as she spoke. "I didn't know he was dropping by tonight. He'll do that – just show up."

"You don't think it might've been something to come up in conversation before now, that your dad's likely on the police database?"

"You just never ask me much of anything."

So he started asking. "Is your mom in the Russian mob? Might be a good time to let me know."

"No!" She bit his lip.

"Ow."

"She runs the office in an insurance company in Iowa."

"Iowa?"

"The Outlaws don't have a chapter there."

"Right. Yeah, okay, I get that. So why are you here then, in Kentucky?"

"I like Lexington. I didn't want to leave. She moved. I stayed."

"How old were you when she left?"

"Eighteen. My uncle took me on as an apprentice in his trade."

"Tiler."

"That's right."

Tim thought back. "I was seventeen when I left home."

"Why'd you leave?"

"High school was done. I enlisted."

"Your mom let you, so young?"

"She didn't want me to, but I had to get out of there. My dad was happy to sign the papers. He had to be good for something." He thought of one more question he should ask. "Got any brothers or sisters running with the Outlaws too?"

"Mm-mm." A sleepy no. "At least not that I know of. I have a half-brother somewhere. So Daddy tells me."

They talked awhile longer, sharing memories of high school and family. The sentences became shorter, disjointed, softer and further apart. Tim fell asleep first.

His phone rang, waking them up at five the next morning. It was Louisiana calling, SOG headquarters gathering in the team. Tim packed, gave Jo a key and left for the airport.

* * *

It was Tim's first time in Miami. Raylan described it as hot, and it was hot. Tim didn't like it much. He didn't like the people, didn't like the city, didn't like the ocean either. He commented on it to one of the other team members, ex-Army too and becoming a friend slowly.

"You have to grow up on a coast to be comfortable with an ocean," he replied. He was from Maine.

Tim had spent occasional weekends on a boat in the reaches and inlets near Tacoma, Washington while he was serving with the 2nd battalion there, had been out on Puget Sound past Seattle and into the Juan de Fuca Strait, but there was still a lot of land between him and the Pacific Ocean on those waters. There was nothing _but_ water beyond Miami's beaches. He could see straight out past the strip to the Atlantic from his vantage point on the roof of a tall parking garage. He set up with his rifle and waited and glanced now and then at the endless expanse of blue and wondered why anyone would want to be out there. It was sparkling and friendly-looking today but he wasn't fooled. The ocean couldn't be trusted. He preferred a forest, even the bare and rocky mountain ranges of Afghanistan were better than all that water.

His earpiece crackled, telling him the party was starting at the court house, the guests arriving. He scanned windows and rooftops and watched the protestors and gawkers and reporters crowding outside the barriers but nothing happened to disrupt the high-profile, threat-riddled trial. A revelation from the witness stand turned the prosecution inside-out and the trial was postponed indefinitely, or so he was told by their team leader as they packed up. Four days in the sun with a rifle and Tim was paid for the trouble. He got a bit of a tan too. Not a bad gig.

He had an afternoon to kill on the last day before his flight back home, so Tim used the time to visit the Miami Police Department's Homicide Division. It wasn't a social call; he had a question. He showed his badge and asked his question and was passed further and further down the seniority line, no one interested, until he ended up talking to a young woman on a desk, newly minted at the police academy, still a happy and genuine smile. Tim repeated his request, again, for her.

"I'm sorry, I don't know," she said. "I only started here last month."

Bureaucracy and bullshit politics were part of every job and Tim tried hard not to let it get him down. He ran a hand over his mouth and took a breath and the girl sat up a little straighter, looking worriedly at him, aware of the frustration beginning to show at his edges.

"This particular murder," said Tim, words evenly spaced, "is fucking freaky enough that I know, if I could just talk to one of the detectives, they'd remember it. It won't take much time. Who's in right now?"

"Uh, I don't…"

His patience ran out. He'd gotten past the security barriers at the front door with his Marshals ID and had access to the entire building unless someone decided to tackle him and throw him out, so he stepped around her desk and marched down the hallway, ignoring her protests and peering in doors, searching for a room with a warm body sitting in it. He was looking for someone older, someone who might have been on the job a while, and when he found a likely someone, he marched into her office and sat down across the desk from her.

"Who are you?"

The office's occupant looked hard-nosed enough to take on a disgruntled Deputy Marshal. Tim watched her put up her defenses as she demanded his name, eyes moving between him and the young officer at her door who'd trailed desperately after Tim, trying to salvage the situation and take back control.

"Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson." He showed his star, again. "Who are you?"

"Detective Clemente."

"Homicide?"

"This is the homicide floor."

"Perfect. I have a quick question. Do you remember…"

She interrupted, hand out to stop him, and spoke to the anxious officer still lingering nervously. "It's alright, Tammy, I'll deal with it."

More of Tim's emergency reserves of patience were used up waiting until he had the detective's attention. He made a brusque motion with his arm to check the time on his watch and Clemente's eyes snapped warily back to him.

"I'm sorry. What were you saying, Deputy Gutterson?"

He recognized his own dismissive head tilt used against him and dug deep for a bit of serenity and repeated his question. "Do you have any recollection in the last few years of a murder involving a homeless man…?"

"Vagrants die all the time."

"Can I finish?"

She shrugged.

"The victim was stabbed and then the fingers cut off and stuffed in his mouth. Different enough you might remember."

She looked directly at him. "Yes."

"Yes?" Tim hadn't expected a yes, had hoped, in fact, for a no.

"It's hard to forget something like that – pretty creepy. It was a few years ago, though."

"You get anyone for it?"

"We had nothing to go on. I don't think we even managed to identify the victim. Difficult to do with cases like that. No one came forward to claim the body, no dental records, nothing."

Tim wet his lips. "Any chance I could have a look at the case file?"

"Why?"

"There was a similar killing in Atlanta recently."

"Are you with the Atlanta bureau?"

"No."

Another head tilt. "Is the Marshals Service handling homicides now? Did I miss a memo?"

"No. It's nothing official. I'm just looking into something on my..."

"I'm busy, Deputy Gutterson."

"So's everybody, so stop wasting time arguing with me. Can you just get me the case number? I'll get the file."

She gave in, slid her keyboard closer and entered some information into her computer, jotted a series of numbers onto a piece of paper and held it out for him.

"Thank you very much," he said, standing up.

She was still reading from her screen, still holding the other end of the slip of paper. She frowned.

"What?"

"There's reference here to another case, more recent." She chewed on her lip. "I was on maternity leave, I guess." She pulled the paper back from Tim's fingers and wrote a second number on it, then a phone number on the bottom. "You're thinking this is becoming a hobby for someone?"

"Maybe."

"Call me if you find something?"

"Sure. Whatever."

"Nobody's going to work very hard on something like this. It's pretty low on the priorities," she said, an apology of sorts.

"It's okay. I get it."

She nodded, distracted. Tim dropped his card on her keyboard and left.

The young officer on the front desk hesitated when Tim showed her the case numbers, but made a call and Tim was escorted to a room to view the files. He waited until the officer who had brought him the folders left then he stuffed them in his duffel bag and walked out of the building and caught a cab for the airport. It's not like anyone would miss them, he reasoned.

It made him angry, reading through the files on the plane back to Lexington. Both were at best cursory efforts at an investigation. Tim was surprised anyone had bothered to register the possible connection between the two homicides. One was from four years earlier; the more recent was from the past summer. Both victims were homeless, lost souls; both had their fingers cut off and jammed into their mouths. Forensics on one of the cases – someone had bothered with a bit of investigative work – suggested that the victim was killed with a knife, but the markings on the severed finger bones matched the scoring from a jigsaw. The crime scene photos were remarkably similar, and similar to Atlanta Phil's murder. That was three and Max had hinted about another in Orlando.

It was late when he touched down in Kentucky, but he made a few quick phone calls outside the airport before he drove home, left a message for the detective in Atlanta and one for his friend at the FBI, then he tried Max's burner, let it ring while he walked to his truck.

* * *

 


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

Tim's cell rang as he sat in his truck looking at his dark house, and Jo's too with no lights on. He answered without checking the display. It was Isabel, his FBI contact. She sounded like she'd been drinking, overly sentimental and gruff at the same time.

"Gutterson! God, you know I love and dread your phone calls. Every time I hear your voice I start thinking about how uncomfortable it is to be naked with pine cones up my ass crack, and then, for some fucked up reason, I actually start missing the sensation. You're still messing with me after all this time and I'm the one who up and left you in that soggy god-forsaken state. What shit are you dragging me into now and why do you only call me about business? It hurts, you know, being used like this."

It came at him fast and he chuckled at the continuity of Isabel and replied slow just to try and even it out, "Hey, Isabel. How's it going?"

"Going alright. I miss you, you piece of Ranger shit."

Tim snorted, smiled easily. "You don't miss _me_ – you miss having someone to beat on."

"Yeah, I think you're right. It was fun. You were a pushover."

Yeah, it was fun; he remembered the pine cones. And yeah, he was a pushover; he remembered rolling over and playing dead for her when she commanded it. He remembered too the first day he laid eyes on her. He never thought that uniforms were particularly sexy on a woman but there was something about her, her energy. He could picture her still, that day she came around to debrief his platoon after a mission, a high-value target acquired, two actually that night. She had questioned his team thoroughly about the occupants of the house they had entered, descriptions and numbers, men, women and children. He had been leading a fire team on that one and they were first into the compound so she spent extra time with him. You don't see many women in that part of the world that aren't covered head to toe, so he stared – maybe they all did but he was too busy staring to notice. She was a tiny and passionate fireball, Military Intelligence, Captain Isabella Lubrano. She was intense – too intense for Tim – intense even when she was just listening.

And she was off-limits. Officers and enlisted don't mix…ever.

She and Tim hooked up back at Fort Lewis anyway while she did her time with the 109th before her promotion and her next posting back on the east side of the US. It was a chance meeting on an early morning run. The sweatpants weren't any more flattering than the uniform but the flinty and caustic, rapid-fire, Italian Brooklyn snark meshed beautifully with the slow and jaded sarcasm rolled into a faint north Alabama drawl and they met when they could at a motel a ways off base to keep it off the radar. It was never a thing, just a thing, when one or the other wasn't off training somewhere or breathing in the dust of another continent. She could make him laugh.

"I'd eat you up," she'd say whenever talk strayed to 'what next'. He thought he could eat her up if she'd just stop talking long enough. But she was right. He liked it quiet, and with her it could never be quiet. She spent half her life yelling, the other half building up to yelling. Just a touch and a burn now and then – that was all he wanted, and all she'd give him. And truthfully that was all he could take of her, but the friendship never faltered.

She should have been further up the ladder at the Federal Bureau of Investigation by now – she had the experience, the letters after her name, the smarts and the drive – but something she couldn't shake had followed her home from Afghanistan and she couldn't take the pressure anymore. It started with missed work, a day here, a week there, then one too many screw ups, too much vodka, and she was pulled from the field and put on a desk. The chair didn't fit her very well.

Tim could picture her hands moving while she talked, grinned at her Brooklyn-laced voice, and it occurred to him that maybe she too was a friend to help bury the body. It wasn't something you would want to field test though.

"It's late, Tim, and I'm more than a bit drunk, so just tell me what you want because I know you – you want something."

"You know, it might've been nice if you'd said good-bye."

"Bullshit. You didn't miss me."

His grin widened – this script was repeated every time they talked. "Maybe."

"What do you want, Gutterson?"

"I think I've crossed paths with a serial killer," he said, getting right to it before she took off again on a word run. "I was hoping you might feel like doing a little digging through your databases. I need more proof, another body or two if it is what I think it is, before I start trying to convince someone to open up a proper investigation."

"Only if I get to see you. I hear your voice a lot. Are you going bald yet?"

"No, I've still got too much hair. How's the weather in Virginia?"

"It's fucking shitty!" She yelled it into the phone, huffed. "This fucking winter. I'm starting to settle into this desk job. I hate it. Promise me you won't let them bury me in a chair." There was a short silence. "So are you going to come here and say hello this time?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe… Have you got a girlfriend? I'm getting the feeling you've got a girlfriend. Does that mean you're off my casual sex list?"

Tim peered through the windshield at Jo's side of the house, hoping to see a light on. He still didn't have a key. "Maybe."

"Shit, Gutterson. Better stay home then. I don't want to get you into trouble. I'll stick with my harem here in Virginia. So what do you got that makes you think you've hit on a psycho?"

Tim didn't doubt for a minute that she had a harem, poor bastards. He didn't dare take the conversation that direction. Instead, he described the murders and promised to send details in the morning and she, unhesitating, agreed to do some investigating for him. He suspected she might even start as soon as he hung up.

It was past midnight. Jo was up and out early in the morning these days, at the jobsite by six. Tim closed and locked the truck and slumped disappointed up the walkway to his door, didn't want to knock and wake her. She wouldn't have answered anyway, as it turned out – she was lying on the floor of his living room with the headphones on, ankle crossed over a bent knee, foot beating time to the music that he couldn't hear. She had one of those strappy tops on.

Grinning like a six-year-old, Tim dropped his bag in the hall and walked over and nudged her bum with his boot.

Her eyes popped open and she smiled, making it look easy again, and said, "Hi, Marshal," in a whisper and put both arms out toward him, inviting him closer.

* * *

Tim got up with Jo the next morning, early, and went for a run before work. There was new air in the office, or it seemed that way to him, everyone flowing comfortably on a different track. The bullpen had changed, morphed as a group to move more easily now on the new road. Much of the shift had happened while Tim was away in Miami, and he felt like he'd lost the draft, so he sat as his desk sipping a coffee and watching the other marshals run a lap, looking for an opening to slide back into the train. He prided himself in being adaptable, new orders, new mission, new landscape at a moment's notice, walk off the back of a Chinook and drop into a new set of circumstances every night. As long as you kept your focus and had faith in your skills and your team then that was what grounded you when the scenery shifted. He was good at adapting.

"Tim," said Raylan, a nodded greeting, all business, "glad you're back. We're at a run, catching up with Boyd." He gestured to the conference room, set up with white boards and files. "Bring your coffee and I'll bring you up to speed."

Raylan was very professional, walking Tim through the plan. He looked like a man in a suit three or four sizes too small and about to burst, beer sealed in a bottle and left to ferment in the sun. Tim accepted the fact that it was going to get messy sometime in the future in the showdown between Raylan and Boyd. Raylan was going through the motions, but sooner or later he'd be slipping out the back door for his fix of independence. It was inevitable. The dread of it led him to decide two things in his half-hour briefing with Raylan – first, that he was going to go through the process of qualifying on the new handgun he'd just bought himself, something he felt confident with as a backup weapon, and second, that he and Nelson were meeting at the range after work today.

Tim needed everyone in the office to have faith in their skills – _he_ needed to have faith in their skills – so at quitting time he was going to lead Nelson back to the LPD examination facility and play ball and dummy with him until he convinced him that he was flinching. Then they'd just have to break Nelson of the habit. He'd give him homework – hours of dry firing every day until the weekend.

"Tim?" Raylan interrupted the gun visuals.

"What?"

"Are you even listening?"

"Maybe."

"Where's your head?"

"At the firing range, Raylan, with my new H&K P30s. Right where you need it to be."

* * *

"Hey, Mrs. M."

"Tim, when are you going to stop calling me Mrs. M. and start calling me Leslie?"

"When I stop being afraid of you."

"Oh, for…" Leslie Mullen rolled her eyes and stepped out of the way, grabbed Tim by the jacket sleeve and pulled him inside off the front step. "Come on in. Art's in the TV room, bored and grumpy. Go annoy him."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good boy."

She turned and walked back toward the kitchen and Tim took off his boots and shut the front door carefully and followed her.

"Would you like a beer, hon? Are you off the clock?"

"That would be wonderful, thanks."

"Make a big show of drinking it in front of him, will you?" She tipped her head toward the next room, opened a bottle and handed it to Tim.

He grinned for her, complicit. "Sure thing."

"Will you stay for dinner?"

"Uh, I can't tonight. I've got, um…"

"A date?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"You'll have to tell me about her, but for now, please, amuse him." She turned Tim around and pushed him toward the sounds of the evening news.

"You better not drink that in here," Art snapped though it was difficult to put fear into hearts when you were wrapped up in a blanket, lolling in an EZ-chair.

Tim slurped loudly and made himself comfortable on the couch. "Sorry I didn't come over sooner. SOG called me in."

"Rachel told me."

"How're you feeling?"

"I don't wanna talk about it. How's the beer?"

"Delicious, cold, satisfying."

"Leslie, get my gun!" Art yelled the command from his chair and Tim sniggered. Neither Leslie nor the gun appeared. After a convincingly angry frown in the direction of the kitchen, Art picked up a juice box and took a sip. "So, you weren't gone very long."

"We were covering a trial. I got to see Miami."

"You like it?"

"Not impressed – with the city or the trial."

"Raylan guessed that's where you were heading. Another cartel bigwig, he said."

"Yeah, that's right." Tim was happy to hear Art and Raylan were on speaking terms again. Seemed like the bullet had knocked sense into them both.

"A lot of folk would like him dead, I'm sure."

Tim was still thinking about Raylan. "Dead? Who?"

"The cartel guy. Don't know why they bother bringing you guys in to protect them. Why not let someone in the doors with a gun, save the tax payers some money?"

"'Cause most people are lousy shots."

"So, they take out a lawyer or two in the process. What's the big deal?"

"I like the way you think, Chief."

"Then why are you putting in for a transfer?"

* * *

 


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

Tim didn't recognize the number. It was local though, not Isabel, not Max.

"Tim Gutterson."

"Hey, Marshal."

The grin was blocked before it could manifest into anything and give him away. Tim pulled the phone from his ear and motioned to Rachel that he was going to take a call then walked to his desk and turned his back to the bullpen spies.

"Hey, Jo. What the fuck? You're using _the phone?"_

"Shoot me now," she said.

"If that's what you want."

"I'm being figurative."

"It's nice to hear your voice in the middle of the day."

"Yeah, yours too. How's work going?"

"We're in a car speeding the wrong way up an off-ramp onto life's interstate, heading for a full-on Kentucky catastrophe. No, wait, better description… We're running in a NASCAR race, clockwise."

"I don't get it."

"I'll take you to a race sometime – you'll get it."

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"If you consider NASCAR a date. I was thinking more along the lines of educational school trip."

"If it gets me out of Lexington for a weekend, I'll consider it a date."

"Alright, but I don't want any complaining that it's boring."

"It can't be more boring than this job."

"You're trying to make me jealous, aren't you? What're you working on?"

"Front hall and kitchen tiles. Developers always have terrible taste - they choose the most boring colors."

"Bit different from your mosaics, I guess."

"Just a bit." He could hear her smile, then her frown. "Uh…"

"What?"

"Marshal, I need a rescue. Are you in the mood for rescuing me tonight?"

Tim sat a little straighter, eyes narrowed. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, it's nothing. It's just… One of the guys is leaving and we're going to a bar tonight to send him off and I was hoping you wouldn't mind meeting me there when you're done work? I'll buy you a beer."

There was a silence while Tim tried to figure out how that constituted a rescue.

Jo mistook it as something else. "It's okay, you don't have to."

"No, that's fine. I'll come. I just don't get… What bar?"

"Probably some shit hole. Do you know Willie's up on North Broadway? I hate it when they all get a little drunk and then start hitting on me and I thought if you were there they might not. One of the consequences of being the only girl on a jobsite…" Her voice trailed off.

"That place is alright. I've been there."

"What a surprise."

"Hey," said Tim, deep warning voice, smiling as she laughed away the threat. "Unless something blows up here, I'll be there – as soon as I can after five. Alright?"

"I'll cross my fingers for no grenades. Thanks, Marshal."

"My name's Tim."

"Calling you Marshal makes me laugh."

"Why?"

"'Cause I've seen you naked."

"Don't make me sorry I got you a phone. I'm hanging up now."

* * *

"Tim Gutterson."

"Jesus, Gutterson, how exactly did you trip into these murders? Do I even want to know? The victims are all street people. Are you playing hobo in your spare time or are you still crawling around cities drunk, making friends under overpasses?"

Tim had recognized the Virginia area code, excused himself from Rachel a second time and walked back to his desk. "Hey Isabel, you found something already?"

"I am a fucking genius at cross-referencing shit. You have no idea, no concept of how great I am at my job. I got a hit within the hour. Another body, same MO, Houston this time. I'm sending you the report. I'm sure there's more since I found that one so quickly." He could hear her sucking some smoke from a cigarette, traffic in the background. "These are ugly, Gutterson."

"I know."

"I'll tag them as I find them but you know this won't make it to the top of the heap anytime soon, even if we come up with twenty more bodies."

"I know."

"Even if one of them is your friend…what's his name?"

"Max."

There was a gap, a length of air, unusual for Isabel, then another suck of smoke before she concluded and abruptly hung up. "Keep me in the loop."

He didn't get a chance to say, "Maybe."

When he turned around Rachel was standing in front of his desk, pages from a fax in her hand, a grim look. "Houston now? These definitely aren't photos for a tourist brochure."

"Uh, yeah." He reached out for the papers and Rachel handed them over.

"You find any others?"

"Two in Miami, the one in Atlanta, maybe Orlando, but that's just a rumor so far, and now Houston."

Rachel looked over to Art's empty office then back. "I need you here, Tim. Leave that for the Feds."

"I'm just getting a friend to dig through a federal database. I'm just collecting scenes. I'll pass it off when I've got enough that someone will take notice."

Rachel nodded. "It's cool you're doing it." She tucked an errant bit of hair back in place. "Can you head out to Big Sandy and talk to an inmate there, check out what he knows about Crowder?"

"Yeehaw, I'm on it. I love that Raylan's in charge of this investigation and we're going after his arch-nemesis buddy. Can I take the Wonder Bread car?"

"What?"

"Kurt Busch. I'm a fan."

She still didn't get it, waved him off. "Take whatever car you want, just don't wreck it."

"But that's half the fun."

"Call me when you get on the interstate and I'll get Raylan to explain what he needs from this guy." She handed him the folder she had tucked under her arm.

* * *

Tim could do the drive with his eyes closed. Marshals and prisons, it was an intimate relationship.

Vasquez was pushing them to check even the remotest of connections, chasing down anyone that Boyd might have hired or worked with during his criminal career, or chanced to stand behind in a line at a convenience store. Tim flipped the file open and skimmed the information at the top of the first page as he maneuvered out of the parking lot. The name was familiar, sort of. Darryl Carvill. Tim massaged the name, worked it through his memories looking for a match, thought for a moment that it was just the smelly residue of Darryl Crowe, Jr. getting in his nose. He was two blocks from the court house when the realization hit. Carvill. That was the name of the man on the top of his list when he and Rachel were chasing down the two fugitives from New York State, before Art was shot; that was, coincidently, also the name of the man with the Desert Eagle, the one on the top of the bad guy pile. He still had the picture from the scene on his phone.

He pulled over to the curb and called back to the office. Rachel answered.

"Tim, if you're already at Big Sandy then I'm taking away your license. Raylan just explained to me who Kurt Busch is."

"But the car's still in one piece, honest."

"It had better be. What do you want? You just left. You can't possibly be on the interstate yet."

"Carvill."

"Yes? What about him?"

"I'm just flipping through the file and I couldn't help but notice that he has two brothers – one running a body shop in Lexington, the other dead by a bullet originating from _my_ gun."

"He won't know it was you."

"You're sure?"

"Tim, if you don't think you can handle it."

"Oh, no, don't go there. I'm just wondering how likely he is to cooperate with me if he does know."

"He won't know."

Tim wasn't convinced, mulled his options while he drove east. He'd decided on a plan by the time he pulled into the visitor's lot at Big Sandy, signed the waiver and surrendered his sidearm. Darryl Carvill looked about as thrilled to have a guest as Tim guessed he looked to be visiting.

"I'm Deputy Marshal Gutterson," said Tim. He pulled the metal chair back from the table and sat out of reach.

The prisoner's eyes shifted to the guard at the door then back to Tim. Darryl Carvill was built differently than his brother, Patrick. He was thicker and heavier and generally meaner looking. "Marshal, huh?"

"That's right," said Tim.

Darryl leaned forward onto the table, growled boredom. "Some fucking Marshal shot my brother. You know anything about that?"

"Yep, that'd be me."

The nostrils flared, the breath quickened into a double time, the voice lost the tedium, became sharp and pointed, slicing through gritted teeth. "Then tell me, why the fuck would I help you? Why wouldn't I come across this table and break your fucking neck?" Darryl's eyes glanced back at the guard again, measuring.

"Well, according to the transcript from your last parole hearing, you're a changed man, ready to be a contributing member of society. I figure you'd want to aid the United States Marshals Service in the apprehension of a violent and dangerous offender."

"You're fucking outta your mind coming here."

"Okay, then…let's try this. If you don't help me, I'll shoot your other brother, Darryl."

"Are you threatening me?"

"If you want to see it that way." Tim waved a hand casually. "I'm just saying, we're looking into him because he's connected to those two dirtbags that gunned down that cop in New York State." That wasn't true, but Tim had no trouble lying to shitkickers. "Guys like you and your brothers, you all have a habit of pulling and pointing, and I can't help myself – I gotta shoot you. It's a survival instinct. If you want us to back off him so he doesn't have to see my survival instinct in action then you help us out with Crowder. It's that simple."

"You'll leave Brian alone?"

"Unless he gets in my face with a gun."

Darryl slid his arms off the table, sat back. "What d'you wanna know? Crowder don't mean shit to me. My brother does."

"Everything."

Everything was nothing. Tim backed the car out and drove the two and a half hours back to Lexington, reminding himself at every mile marker that this is what they paid him for.

* * *

Jo was wearing a dress. It froze Tim's brain, left him speechless for the first ten minutes, mutely going through the introductions and absorbing the dirty looks from her coworkers, already a round or two in. Some of the crew would've been with her if she would only say yes, the rest looked on her as a little sister. Either way they were disinclined to like Tim.

Tim barely noticed, too busy admiring a girl in a dress.

Jo looked happy to see him and that made him more comfortable than he should've felt under the circumstances. She poured Tim a beer from the jug on the table and leaned in when she handed it to him to say, "You're staring, Marshal."

"You look different."

"Better?"

"Different. I like it all. And I'm spoiled – I've seen you naked."

Another easy smile.

There was a good beer selection – Tim ordered his favorite after drinking a glass of the table's draft choice. There was also a decent local band playing local Kentucky music and Jo was a convenient and accessible dance partner for the group since they all knew her. The hostilities were forgotten as the evening progressed, by the guys that Jo passed over because Tim didn't seem to mind if they took a turn with her dancing, and by the self-appointed older brothers who became instant buddies when they discovered that Jo's boyfriend was a former Ranger, and a sniper at that.

"I have a cousin who was in Afghanistan," said one, leaning in and yelling over the music. "Maybe you know him? He was with the 2nd Infantry, Army, like you, in Kandahar."

Tim shook his head, interrupted before the name of the cousin came out. "Never would've crossed paths. Sorry."

"So where were you then?"

"Here and there."

"What did you do?"

"Mostly high value target acquisition, kill or capture."

No one was quite sure what that meant and they were unable to hide it because they'd all had at least three pints too many, but every head nodded knowingly just the same. And everyone caught what was implied in the statement.

"Cool."

"Aren't you gonna dance with me?" Jo interrupted the conversation, plopped down on the seat next to Tim and smiled that easy smile, like she knew the answer before she asked.

"I suck at dancing."

"I didn't figure you for a Fred Astaire," she said. "That's why I saved you a slow one, so you couldn't say no. I mean, seriously, you're going to say no and I'm wearing a dress? Are you that much of an asshole?"

He couldn't say no, let her drag him up in front of the band. His phone started buzzing in the middle of the song – he couldn't hear it but it vibrated against his hip. It got his attention and he pulled her a little tighter and tried to ignore it.

It was hard being him and being a good date. He tried but he couldn't help sneaking a peek at the display when they sat back down. It was a Virginia area code. He got up and walked outside and hit redial.

"Isabel, what's up?"

"Gutterson, are you with your girlfriend? God, you must be or else you would've answered. I'm trying to decide if I'm jealous. You'll know if I decide I am."

"You interrupted a date to bark at me?"

"I got something for you."

"Yeah?"

"You won't like it."

"Maybe. What is it?"

"I'm up to twenty-four. This is some sick fuck you've put me on to."

The room looked different when Tim walked back inside, less friendly. He went to the bar and ordered a bourbon.

* * *

 


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

"Okay, let's go," she said coming up beside Tim back at the bar trying to get the bartender's attention for another whiskey. She tugged his sleeve. "You can drink at home, less money, better bourbon."

"You don't have to sell it to me." He turned and grinned, boyish, raised both eyebrows, let his hand slip around her waist then off it as he stepped past her. "I'm already out the door," he whispered in her ear, whiskey and beer.

Jo followed him out to the parking lot, full of cars still, and it would be until two in the morning when the bar stopped serving. She trailed along behind him, off to the right, lunged when he pulled out his car keys, snatched them from his hand and threw them, a hook-shot with a lovely arc, up onto the roof of Willie's bar.

Tim turned in a circle, to Jo first then moving to follow his keys' trajectory up and over, and then back again to Jo. "What the fuck?" But he really was too drunk to be angry.

She bit her lip. "I don't want you driving. I've been counting."

"I'm fine."

"Tell it to the judge. I'll call us a cab."

"I'm not taking a fucking cab."

"Suit yourself. Walk."

Tim turned again and eyed the building. It was a nondescript, flat-roofed, single story brick storefront, single line of parking facing it, a thin and cheap metal railing along one side of a short ramp to the door, probably a single step at one time before accessibility became a political phrase. He huffed, turned one more time to glare at Jo, then walked back to the door, climbed onto the railing, balanced, and jumped, grabbing hold of the large sign hanging over the entrance. He swayed there a second, confirming he had a grip, then swung his leg up and hooked his heel onto the top ledge of the sign and hauled himself higher, almost horizontal, high enough to move one hand to the edge of the roof above and his body up and over. The keys weren't hard to find and he scooped them up and walked back to the front edge and squatted down, narrowed his eyes in challenge at Jo standing in the parking lot watching him.

"Humph," she said, sounding it out like a word, more for humor than an expression of disgust. She wagged her cell phone at him. "Know any phone numbers for cabs?"

"I'll drive you."

"No, you won't."

Tim tilted his head and let out a huff and Jo crossed her arms loosely, foot tapping a rhythm, and started singing.

" _Rye Whiskey makes the band sound better,_  
_makes your baby cuter, makes itself taste sweeter. Oh, boy!_  
 _Rye whiskey makes your heart beat louder,_  
 _makes your voice seem softer, makes the back room hotter._  
 _Oh, but rye thoughts, they ain't smart thoughts…"_

Tim recognized the song – it was one that the band had played that night, 'round about his third, or maybe it was his fourth, trip to the bar, another two fingers of bourbon to try and pry from his thoughts twenty-four bodies and ninety-six fingers of cold-blooded murder. He interrupted the serenade. "Jo, I'm fine. And anyway, I was drinking bourbon. It's a corn mash, not rye."

"I appreciate the lesson in distilling, but I'm not getting in that truck with you and I'm not going to argue about it either. You know, you're pretty cute when you're drunk. I'm glad you don't become an asshole. Know any phone numbers for cabs?"

She didn't look angry and it didn't feel like an argument to Tim. Jo was very matter-of-fact. It was very confusing. He didn't know how to deal with rational so he rejoindered with immature.

"Even if I knew a number for a cab company, I wouldn't tell you." He stuck out his tongue.

"Okay, be like that." She returned the gesture then started pressing buttons.

Tim frowned, said suspiciously, "Who're you calling?" He sat and let his legs hang over the roof edge, leaning a little forward, trying to find a clue in the glow of her phone's display.

"Oh, for God's sake, Tim – don't fall. Then I will be mad." She returned to the dialing. "I'm calling my daddy for a ride."

"Your daddy?"

"He doesn't drink," she said, explaining her choice.

"Yeah, but... Shit, Jo, don't call your dad. He's… I'm not sitting on the bitch seat of your dad's Harley. He's an Outlaw."

"Tim, do you honestly think he'd give you a ride home? I'm calling for me."

A clear thought hit then and it hurt. Tim scrunched up his face and let it out. "Fine, you drive." He tossed the keys to her and grabbed the roof edge and swung down, legs dangling, then he dropped, rolling into an off-balance backward somersault when he hit the pavement. He ended up on his butt, then flopped onto his back, closed his eyes and grimaced. "Ow. My knees didn't like that."

Jo was standing by his head when he opened his eyes again.

"We could've brought a ladder back tomorrow," she said.

"I'm not leaving my truck here overnight."

"And I'm not driving. I haven't driven a car since I got my license when I sixteen. That was like over a dozen years ago."

"Fuck. You don't drive?"

"No. I don't have a car. I don't need a car. I haven't got any place to go that I can't bike or take a bus..."

"Well, you do have a current Kentucky driver's license, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then drive. It's not fucking rocket science." Tim stood and brushed the parking lot off his shirt and pants. "I'll coach you."

When a car on North Broadway had to swerve to avoid her backing the truck onto the street and Tim found it funny and giggled, he decided maybe it was best Jo was driving. Besides, he discovered he wasn't all that concerned about his truck. It didn't feel like new anymore, not special, not with the unicorn damage on the back tail gate. The thought of unicorns attacking got him giggling again.

Jo had a death-grip on the steering wheel. She started singing after a block, different song, loosened her fingers and tapped one hand to the off-beat.

" _Well I don't feel better_  
_When I'm fucking around_  
 _And I don't write better_  
 _When I'm stuck in the ground_  
 _So don't teach me a lesson_  
 _Cause I've already learned_  
 _Yeah the sun will be shining_  
 _And my children will burn –_  
 _Oh the heart beats in its cage."_

"Happy song," said Tim. "Strokes, right?"

"It's helping me relax, and for some reason you brought it to mind. Now don't interrupt. I might crash."

"Watch the red light."

"Shut up!"

He smiled and closed his eyes, along now for the ride, forgetting briefly.

" _I don't want what you want_  
_I don't feel what you feel_  
 _See I'm stuck in a city_  
 _But I belong in a field_  
 _Yeah we got left, left, left, left, left, left, left_  
 _Now it's three in the morning and you're eating alone_  
 _Oh the heart beats in its cage."_  
  
He joined in halfway through the second verse, yelling out the repeated refrain, "left, left, left" and she started laughing and he continued alone.

" _All our friends, they're laughing at us."_

"It's just me laughing, and I'm laughing at you. That's an interesting harmony you're throwing in. Don't give up your day job."

"Fuck off," he said and kept singing. _"All of those you loved you mistrust."_

She took a corner a little fast while throwing out a compliment. "You got good rhythm though."

That stopped him and he looked at her askance.

"That's what she said," she said and picked up the song.

" _I went to the concert and I fought through the crowd_  
_Guess I got too excited when I thought you were around_  
 _Oh he gets left, left, left, left, left, left, left…"_

They were screaming it out when she pulled up at the house, spilled laughing from the truck.

"That's the third time this month I've almost been killed," said Tim. "I feel like a lucky version of Kenny from South Park."

They stood together a moment by the truck until Jo said, "You're not wearing a parka though. Your place or mine?" and then they started laughing again.

* * *

The buzz and the booze, the blinders, wore off sometime in the night and Tim sat on his couch, feet on the coffee table, laptop perched on his knees, opening file after file from Isabel. The clock on his computer said he should be in bed still but he and Jo had decided on his place and he was slave to the routine again tonight, up when his eyes opened, scrolling through pages of horror stories and homeless ghosts haunting and stealing his sleep. He had a printer in the small second bedroom and sent the incident reports to be inked into a hardcopy – the _where_ and _who_ , if there was even a name for the victim, and _when_ page. Sorting them into date order, he flipped through the pile while he tried Max's number again.

He was listening to the recorded _your shit out of luck_ message when Jo stepped into the living room, sleepy hair, sleepy yawn.

"I should've insisted on my place," she said and fell onto the couch beside him.

He closed his laptop, but not before she got a look at the screen.

"I was hoping for porn." She yawned a second time, extravagantly. "But no, it's work keeping you away."

"It's not even work, not really."

"What is it?"

"You know how it is – you just turn a blind eye to shit unless it fucking up and slaps you in the face."

"Any particular shit?"

It wasn't that he didn't feel he could tell her, he just didn't want to. Telling her about his discovery would be like reading Poe on a light and uninterrupted blue summer day at the park, tainting something that had no shadow on it. Jo had no business knowing about the murders and he had no business bruising her with an awareness of it.

"I have to go to Atlanta again this weekend." His eyes twitched to his phone, thoughts to actions. He picked it up and redialed Max, got nothing.

Jo watched. "Can I come with you?" she said finally, then seemed to back away from the question as soon as it was out in the air.

Tim hesitated, trying to imagine how it could possibly work with him and Jo and Max. "Uh…I'm leaving straight after work Friday and I probably won't be sleeping anywhere I could take you along, at least not till Saturday."

"I'm just happy for the ride," she said quietly, not looking at him. "I can take care of myself once we're there."

"Why d'you wanna go?"

"There's a nice mosaic tile shop in Atlanta. I always have to order online and get it shipped. It'd be nice to see the stuff…touch it before I buy it, you know? Colors don't show up well on a website." She still wouldn't look at him, eyes on her hands now, her fingers tracing a tattoo on the underside of her arm.

"Look, I got shit I gotta do and it's not…" He faltered, halted, thought about company on the ride down, the ride back, maybe one night with her there. It was appealing – someone along to distract him. "How about I book a hotel room for two nights. You'll probably end up sleeping alone in it the first night though…maybe the second. It depends."

A smile lit her up. "That's okay. And I'll pay half." She leaned over to kiss him, propping herself on her hand on the seat cushion between them, but the couch was old and soft and gave too much and she fell into him gracelessly. "Oops." She rolled onto her back on his laptop giggling.

"Oops? Spazz."

"Be nice."

"I am being nice. I'm taking you to Atlanta."

"What's it gonna cost me? Should I worry?"

"I'll think of something. Maybe I'll make you drive part way."

She tugged him down for that kiss she missed. "I might. Any chance you might wanna explain why I'll be sleeping alone at least one of those nights?"

"You don't want to know."

"Maybe I do."

"Maybe you don't." It was his turn to look away.

* * *

 


	20. Chapter 20

* * *

Nelson was definitely improving. He finished firing five shots, all live rounds, all within the allowable target, a decent grouping even. Tim was leaning against the wall of the booth behind him, shared a smile and slapped Nelson on the back. He pulled off his hearing protection and Nelson ghosted the movement.

"We'll work on weak hand next time," said Tim. "Keep dry firing. Do it over and over and over and then fucking over again. You know how often I dry fire? Over and over and fucking over…" He rolled a hand, putting a visual on repetition and monotony.

"Thanks, Tim." Nelson ducked his head, looked pleased, though. "I appreciate your help."

"Hey, you're the one putting in the hours. You're doing it right. Let's go get a beer. I'm getting thirsty watching you work."

"Okay."

They signed out of the range and strolled, talking, to the Marshals' usual bar, figuring they'd find some other end-of-the-day drinkers. Tim offered up some details of his time with the Ranger Regiment for Nelson, a rare glimpse into a past world he kept to himself usually. The conversation mostly covered close quarters marksmanship and how much opportunity there was in combat and training rotations for range shooting, both organized drills and personal time, alone and with a team.

"Getting good at anything takes practice. They gave us lots of time for it. What use is a Ranger if he can't hit a target?"

"What use is a Marshal if he can't hit a target?"

Tim stopped, turned to face Nelson. "How many times have you had to pull? No, more to the point, how many times have you had to pull and actually _shoot_ at something?"

"Maybe three times?"

"And how long you been a Marshal?"

"Coming up on seventeen years."

A wry head tilt and Tim said, "I had you beat easy in my first seventeen _weeks_ as a Ranger. It's a different job."

"I guess."

Tim nodded and kept walking.

"How often did you have to use a sidearm though?"

"We practiced with them all the time."

"In combat, I mean?"

"Never, thank God. That would've meant my rifle was malfunctioning or I'd run out of ammo and that would've meant I was fucked. Nah, it was me and my M4. Good rifle. I took good care of it, never had a problem."

Nelson worked that information into a question. "The M4's an assault rifle. I thought you were a sniper?"

Glancing sideways at Nelson, Tim adjusted his opinions again, surprised at how much Nelson had loosened up in the week or so they'd been working together at the range. They both had. Every interaction previously had been laced with impatience and disdain on Tim's part, feelings he didn't attempt to hide and that unfailingly worked Nelson into a disaster of nerves. It had taken Tim a while to figure out why, why he had no patience for the man, why someone like Nelson should evoke any feelings in him at all. He decided that the difference in their ages was at the center of it. It didn't seem fair to Tim that he should feel older and wiser, more experienced, when Nelson had years on him. There was a sense that the older marshal wasn't holding up his end of things, that Tim had been shouldering more than his share, and not just since they started working together, but long before too. It bred resentment.

It was a stupid way to feel – life wasn't doled out like that, in tidy and equal servings – but there it was. Tim never bothered working to change his opinion of the man. Why should he? These things tended to change themselves if they needed to, without his interference, and he had more important things to look after. This was work, nothing personal, though there were days he wanted to throw a fist out, square and hard, get it out there on show, the resentment.

Nelson mistook Tim's hesitation answering the question for confusion. The question was repeated, reworded so Tim might get it this time and Nelson might get his answer. "If you were a sniper, why were you using an M4? It's not a sniper rifle, is it?"

Nelson was definitely loosening up. He now belonged to a select group in the office, in company with Art, Rachel and Raylan, the only people who dared to dig uninvited into Tim's past. Tim really didn't mind talking about his time in the military, but he would never initiate the discussion, and so the vibe surrounding him was that it wasn't anyone's business. Tim exuded a quiet but firm 'fuck off with your curiosity', a 'fuck off' that Raylan routinely walked all over, that Rachel and Art felt they had the seniority to ignore, and that Nelson maybe just missed. A month ago and Tim would've answered the question with silence, disdain, impatience, but Nelson was working hard at his shooting, and Tim respected that, so he held up a hand, spread his four fingers wide and explained.

"Four years in a regular rifle platoon, dude. You don't just walk in first day and say, 'I wanna be a sniper.' Fuck, they'd eat you alive." It was true – they would. Tim could just imagine the beating, verbal anyway.

"I guess."

"I was a fucking nothing in the Regiment till I got my Ranger tab after my second deployment. There was no way I was getting into a special weapons platoon until I proved myself. They look for particular traits in snipers."

"Like what?"

"Like qualifying expert with your weapon, every time. The job is combat support – you're shooting around your own guys, in the dark. It's not like they're just gonna trust you with that job before they get to know you, especially how you are in combat."

"Makes sense, I guess."

"Yep."

They'd arrived at the bar just then and Tim was grateful for the timing. There were other traits they looked for before they agreed to send you to the Special Forces sniper school, traits that he didn't like to discuss with people that he didn't know well, or that didn't know him. It was hard to explain and not come across badly. He was good at his job, and that's all anyone here needed to know.

* * *

"Heywood Humphrey," said Rachel, directing it at Tim when he and Nelson joined her and Raylan at a table with two other marshals from the office.

Tim waved a hand at the bartender, pointed at Rachel's beer glass when he had his attention and got a nod. He then responded to Rachel's poke. "Heywood Humphrey – what about him?"

"His arraignment's scheduled for the day after tomorrow."

"Why so late?"

"He got into a fight in lock-up, ended up in the hospital. They had to delay."

"Great. Well, maybe I'll go say hi. I miss him."

The waitress came by with the beers, and Nelson and Tim dug in happily.

"I'll bet he misses you too," said Raylan. "You've shared so much."

"Is that why Boyd keeps popping up at our office? He miss you, Raylan?"

"No, I think he's taking a shining to you, Tim."

"Well, we have been texting."

Raylan's whiskey glass stopped dead near his mouth. "Seriously?"

"Yep." Tim pulled out his phone, scrolled through his messages. "Here it is. I asked him how he was doing, see if he wanted to go shooting with me sometime. His reply wasn't very nice – he said, 'Want me in handcuffs, Mr. Ranger Sniper, so you can have a shot at winning a draw?'" He held it up for Raylan to see.

"That's a bit hostile."

"Yeah, I thought so too. I think he took my suggestion the wrong way."

"Poor Tim. So misunderstood."

"I cry myself to sleep on my pillow every night."

"Do you need a hug?"

"I got one, thanks."

Raylan sat up at that, leaned in, a sly grin. "Are you holding out on us, Tim? You get yourself a girlfriend?"

"Maybe. You know, Darryl Crowe, Jr. offered to hold me while I slept once. I thought it was nice of him."

Rachel choked. "Is this a story I want to hear?"

"He felt bad for me, stuck in the Suburban all night." Tim pouted as well as he could. "I miss that car."

Raylan's grin widened, calculating. "You're changing the subject."

The eyebrows came up around the edge of the beer glass Tim was tipping to get at the last of it. "I gotta go," he said, setting it empty on the table, smiling at Raylan. He stood up and dropped some cash on the table.

"See you tomorrow? Same time?" Nelson looked eager.

"Sure thing."

And Raylan couldn't resist. "Wait a minute… Is Nelson your new girlfriend?"

Tim tilted his head. "I don't like to define the roles like that – girl, boy, who's on top – this is the twenty-first century, Raylan. If Nelson wants, I'll be the girlfriend. And I don't kiss and tell, either." He did a cute little finger wave and headed for the door, leaving Nelson sputtering.

The weatherman had promised rain and it was coming down now, hard. Tim pulled his collar up and trotted across the street, stopped when he heard his name called and turned. Rachel came across after him and tugged him over to the shelter of an awning.

"You're not on call this weekend and we don't need you on this Boyd thing, not yet."

Tim nodded, wondered why she braved the rain to tell him that.

"Are you going to be around though – just in case?"

His mouth twisted up and he shuffled his feet, thinking. "My friend at the FBI, she's identified twenty-four more cases that match the M.O. of the killing in Atlanta. They're from all over, different cities."

The news caught Rachel by surprise. _"Twenty-four?"_

"She, uh…she's good, Isabel, at digging and connecting. She always was. Look, I was hoping to go see Max on the weekend, warn him, and I need to meet up with Isabel too, see if we can't pull together a case that we can take to her people and maybe get someone looking at it."

"Tim, it's not…"

"That's all. That's all I'm doing. I'm just…pointing. Rachel, I gotta do it. Nobody else is."

Rachel looked back across at the bar. "Now's a good time, I suppose. We're just pulling stuff together. It can be any warm body. I'll ask Nelson."

Tim decided to push for a little more. "Can I take tomorrow? Run out to Virginia? Then that's it, I swear."

She sighed, answered with a reluctant, but confident, "Sure, okay. But then I need you back here, Tim – full attention."

"You got it."

* * *

It was dark early because of the rain, all night then all the next day, the downpour lining the streets with rivers of brown water running to the sewer drains. He might've missed seeing her except he considerately swerved wide when he saw the puddle and the sorry figure at the side of the road, hoping to save whoever it was from getting more wet, not that anyone outside in this deluge wasn't already soaked through. He looked right at the woman, saw something familiar in the short dark hair. She was sitting in the grass of the boulevard, and he kept his eyes on her in the rearview mirror, pulled over when he was sure, backed up.

She didn't move when he rolled down the window and called out. He got out of his truck and sloshed over. Chivalry as a hobby just sucked some days.

The front wheel of her bike was bent almost in half, the frame equally twisted behind it making the handle bars permanently turned to the right. She was drenched, blending nicely into the puddle she was sitting in. He didn't notice she was crying until he was standing in front of her and saw her shoulders moving in sad little jerks.

"Jo?" He crouched down, a hand out to her arm, squeezing. He tried to peer between the fingers covering her face. "You okay?"

She wiped her eyes with a sleeve, trading salt water for fresh, or the other way around. "Stupid fuck in the cab almost killed me!" She screamed it out right into Tim's face. "He drove me right into the curb and then he didn't even stop! Look at it!"

Tim turned his head, a quick glance for the road kill that was her bike, a grimace.

"It's wrecked!" She screamed out again, angry.

"Are you hurt?"

"My bike's wrecked!"

"Jo, are you hurt?"

She shrugged. Her knee was bleeding, and her elbow. It didn't look serious, the blood diluted and running off in a pale stream. She held her hands out palm up, showing him they were scraped more than usual.

"You don't wear a helmet, do you?"

"He ran me off the fucking road!"

"Come on, I'll drive you home." He wiped her hair back from her face. "Were you going home?"

She nodded and water dripped from her nose. "I went right over the handle bars – 'ass over tea kettle,' my grandma would say – landed on the curb. It hurt. Knocked the wind out of me."

"Are you still crying? I can't tell it's raining so hard."

She sobbed. "What?"

Tim pressed his lips tightly to keep from laughing – she looked comical sitting in a muddy puddle in the wet grass, probably where she landed. He picked up her bike, carried it to his truck and threw it into the bed then went back for her. She had pulled herself to her feet and was slopping over through the mud, still crying. He opened the passenger door, took her by the elbow to help her in, surprised that she'd let him, then he ran around to the driver's side, dodging the lake growing out into the road, closed out the rain and started the truck. He was dripping now too, pulled a clean and dry t-shirt out of a bag in the back and handed it to her.

"Not quite a towel." He smiled an apology.

"I don't want to get blood on it."

"That's why I buy dark colors. I'm always getting blood on my clothes. Don't worry about it."

"I'm always getting grout on mine." She tried a smile for him. It wasn't so hard, brittle though, cracked quickly and she sobbed into his shirt. "Fuck. I can't stop crying."

"I imagine it's a bit scary being in an accident on your bike. Did you get the license plate?"

"No! Jesus! I was too busy being hit by a car!"

"Hey, it wasn't me that ran you off the road, so you can stop fucking yelling at me."

"Sorry." She didn't sound sorry.

"Uh, you're sitting on my file." Tim reached over and tugged on the corner of it, copies of the other reports from his meeting with Isabel.

Jo pulled it out from under her leg and held onto it, smeared a little red on the front. A photo slipped out and fell at her feet. The mud there could only improve it and the blood she added blended in when she reached to pick it up.

"Holy shit."

Tim glanced over when she swore, swore himself. "Hey, put that back in the folder. You don't want to…" He snatched the file to keep her looking any further but managed only to shake loose more photos. They slid out and spread onto her lap and on the mat by her wet runners, a mosaic of death. He pulled over to the curb and scrambled to collect them up out of the puddle forming at her feet.

"Jesus," she said softly. "What the fuck is this?"

Not bothering to try to sort or dry anything, Tim stuffed the lot into a haphazard pile, shut them into the folder and dropped it behind his seat. The pages spilled out again and his anger spilled out with them. "This is the fucking world you live in."

"That's the world _you_ live in maybe, not me."

He put the truck in drive and pulled back onto the road. He glanced over at her a block later – she was turned in her seat staring at the folder and the hints of the contents just visible in the spread of papers.

"Stop looking at it, Jesus."

"Is this what you do? I thought you didn't do investigations?"

"I'm chasing this on my own time."

"Why?"

"'Cause no one else will."

"But why not? That's horrible."

"'Cause nobody gives a fuck!"

"Hey, it wasn't me that killed those people, so you can stop fucking yelling at me," she said, throwing his words back at him. "You don't scare me, Tim. I was surrounded by men like you growing up, like my daddy."

"I am not like your dad."

"Yeah, you're right. He doesn't drink. He drives on the same side of the road, though."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"I ain't explaining if you're too dumb to see for yourself." She crossed her arms, turned to look out the windshield as he slowed and turned into a driveway and parked. "Why are we stopping here?"

"My boss's." Tim reached around behind the seat and collected up the file again. "I just need to have a quick word." He held the folder on his lap, rubbed his eyes. "Come meet Leslie – you'll like her. But no swearing, okay? She hates it."

* * *

 


	21. Chapter 21

* * *

It took a little coaxing to get Jo out of the truck and up to the front door of Art's house. Tim wouldn't have tried so hard if it were any other day, but picking her up on the side of the road had plunked her squarely in the realm of vulnerable. He couldn't bring himself to leave her alone in the truck, in the rain, bleeding, and still upset.

"I'm soaked and muddy."

"Don't worry about it," said Tim, already past whatever anger had sprayed out inside the truck. "Art's used to it with the job. And Leslie…" He rang the doorbell. "…well, she's the perfect combination of Christian and cool. I think it's almost extinct from the gene pool, that personality type. It took a hit when Jesus was crucified."

"Christian? Shit, Tim, I'll wait in the truck."

She made a move for the driveway but Tim grabbed her arm to stop her just as Leslie Mullen opened the door. Taking it all in, Leslie's expression shifted from surprised to amused, and she laughed, kindly, in expectation of a funny story.

"Hey, Mrs. M. – sorry for dripping on your front step."

"Honestly, Tim, you could be six years old with that grin. What're you doing here? I thought you weren't on the grumpy-old-man entertainment schedule until tomorrow. Though you look like you could be very entertaining tonight. You forget to roll up your window driving here?"

"He had to jump in to rescue me," said Jo, stepping up, a polite and nervous smile, talking too fast. "Good thing he wasn't wearing his armor – it would've rusted."

"Jump in where? Did you fall into Hickman Creek?"

"No, it was a puddle I was drowning in."

"Aw." Leslie patted Tim's cheek, teasing. "That's so gallant. That puddle must've been a deep one by the look of you both. Come on in, you two. Let's get you out of the rain. We might stand a chance then of getting you dried off."

Leslie fussed with just the right amount of humor to put them at ease, threw a towel at Tim and pointed to the TV room and marched Jo upstairs for a hot shower and some dry clothes after watching her shiver. Jo told her tale of woe to Leslie, a more sensitive audience than she'd had in Tim.

"And he didn't stop to see if you were hurt?"

"No. I'm not sure he even noticed he hit me, except it made enough noise. My poor bike, scraping along the side of his car – I mean, he must've heard."

Tim was listening, stopped on his way down the hall to call up after them. "Jo, do you remember what color the car was? Which cab company? Anything?"

"I said no, didn't I? I told you, I was too busy being almost killed!"

Tim recalled times being 'almost killed', and he remembered details – who was on the line with him that mission, what weapons were being fired at him by how many enemy, the name of the village, the entrances and exits to the house, whether there was a moon or not – but he nodded because she was hopeless, said, "I guarantee that fucker knew he hit someone."

Leslie scolded. "Tim, not in my house."

"Sorry."

"Not that I don't agree, but there's got to be a better way to say it. Use a little imagination."

Tim tried, but his imagination couldn't come up with anything that could be said in Leslie's house. He ran the towel roughly over his wet hair and walked back to see Art.

"It's raining, okay? And hard." He answered the sarcasm before Art could get it out.

"Did Leslie go upstairs?"

"Yeah. She's finding some dry…"

"Quick, get two beers. She won't get mad at you if you say you got them. She likes you. I can't figure out why. Maybe she's disappointed we never had a son and it's showing as desperation?"

"Chief, I am not getting in trouble with her. She fucking scares me way more than you do."

"Get two cans, now! There's some in the fridge."

Tim shook his head slowly, eyes wide open. "Uh-uh."

"Dammit, Tim! I'm ordering you!"

"You're not the boss of me. Rachel is. And Leslie is like…the fucking emperor or something – Darth Ma."

"You're pathetic."

"It's my highly honed survival instincts. They've kept me alive until now. I don't relish the idea of dying at the hands of Leslie Mullen. And I don't want to have to pull a gun on her, either. I like her."

"Thank you, Tim." Leslie had snuck up behind him, patted him on the back. "Can I get you a beer?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"She's a sweet girl, your Jo."

"Sweet?"

"I can't believe that driver didn't stop. You should report him."

"How? She doesn't remember anything to identify him."

She reappeared with a Bud for Tim and diet soda for Art who managed to look grateful then she disappeared back upstairs.

"So when are you coming back to work?" asked Tim.

"I don't know. I'm moving around better. Doesn't hurt so much. It's driving me crazy being home all day. What am I gonna do when I retire?"

Tim didn't reply. The question was clearly rhetorical, and if it weren't, then it was dangerous territory to tread.

Art answered himself. "Maybe I'll write a book. I could tell some pretty good stories about working with Raylan – maybe sell the rights for a movie or a TV series. Like you with that book you're writing, the one set in Iraq."

Tim smiled for the joke – Art brought it up any chance he got, finding the idea of Tim writing more than six sentences together in one go worthy of a chuckle every single time.

He chuckled.

"You could put an IED in it," said Tim, slurping his beer loudly in retaliation for being the brunt of the joke.

"Yes, I could. Firsthand experience, even. Think about the stories you could write about your time in combat."

"Not happening. There's only so many ways to describe nighttime in Afghanistan…and rocks. It'd be a boring story."

"Somehow, I think not."

"Maybe."

"Why are you here, Tim? Did Leslie call for a babysitter?"

"Nope, I, um… I promised I'd keep you up-to-date on that Atlanta thing."

"It's a thing now, is it?"

"Yep. It's a thing. I had my friend at the FBI do her database magic. She turned up two dozen more bodies, all the same pattern. And before you say it, it's _not_ a coincidence."

Tim had brought the folder in with him. He moved over to a chair next to Art and started handing him crime scene photos. After thirteen, Art tossed the pile back onto Tim's lap and sank tiredly into the cushions piled behind him, brought his hands up to cover his face. Leslie walked through again with a bundle of wet clothes, took one look at her husband, then Tim, then kept walking.

"Couldn't leave it alone, could you?" said Art.

Tim could hear a washing machine starting then Leslie walked through a third time, studiously ignoring them, on upstairs. The sound of her voice and Jo's sifted down and stirred in with the silence from Art's question, which seemed rhetorical too, and not worth answering. Tim shuffled the pictures into a pile and thought about dinner, suddenly hungry. Then he thought about Jo, soft and clean, warm skin, a scent of vanilla. Vanilla. He wasn't sure he would even recognize vanilla if he smelled it, but that's what came to mind when he thought of pulling Jo's shirt up over her head and bringing his face to her skin where the softness started below her collarbone. He put the horror show back under its cover and dropped it onto a side table and took his seat again across the room from Art.

He was still thinking of vanilla, or maybe he could smell it, and he wondered if it had been carried into the room in the bundle of Jo's wet clothes. "You know anyone at the Attorney's office who might kick at this?"

"Multiple murders in multiple jurisdictions – Tim, that's the feebs' purview, and you know it. Your friend's gonna have to push this one with her people."

Tim ran a hand through his hair, grimaced. "So, you don't know…?"

"I don't know anyone who wouldn't tell you to do what I'm just about to tell you to do – pass it along to the feds. They have the resources for this kind of shit."

"Alright."

"Is your friend okay? Have you heard from him?"

"I haven't been able to reach him. But I'm not too worried about him, to be honest. The guy was SOG in Vietnam. He's pretty capable, even when he's loopy."

Art looked up and smiled when Leslie appeared again, Jo in tow. "Art, this is Josephine Emmery. She's a friend of Tim's."

An odd look came over Tim's face. "Emmery? Is that your last name?"

Jo ignored him and walked over to shake Art's hand. "Just Jo is fine," she said, kicked Tim's foot on the way past.

"Nice to meet you, Jo," said Art, big bear smile, warm and friendly. "Did I overhear that Tim had to dive into a puddle to save you?"

"It was a big puddle." Jo stretched her arms wide and the shirt Leslie had scrounged for her out of her closet, a little short, pulled up toward her elbows and revealed a string of tattoos around both wrists and continuing up one arm. Her easy smile had settled back on her face and she accepted with enthusiasm the beer that Leslie suggested, plunked herself down beside Tim on the couch across from Art.

Leslie walked wide of her husband with a beer for Jo, handed it to her and said, "Don't feed the bear," pointed at Art. Then she put a hand on her hip and directed her attention to Tim. "Did I hear you say SOG? Are they dragging you around the country again? I don't understand why they don't keep deputies on full-time – I mean, seriously. It interrupts your work too much when they pull you out whenever and wherever."

Art answered for Tim. "That'd be too practical. This is the federal government we're talking about."

"It's crazy."

Tim cut in. "I don't mind it. But I was talking about a different SOG. I have a friend who was Special Forces in Vietnam, all that clandestine hush-hush stuff they did in Laos and Cambodia. He wouldn't even talk to me about it until I showed him the book that guy wrote. It's all out there now. Anyway, took some convincing, but he believed me finally that it wasn't top-secret anymore." Tim worked his fingers around his beer can, a quick glance at Jo, then Art – he settled on Leslie. "He's got some interesting stories."

"I'll bet."

"Nothing I'd repeat at a dinner table."

"Well, what are we going to talk about then?" That was Leslie's invitation to stay.

"Uh…"

"We can talk about my poor wrecked bike. Maybe a moment of silence for it would be appropriate?" That was Jo accepting for them.

* * *

"She seems like a nice girl, better conversation than you."

Tim walked behind Art to the door while Jo went with Leslie to collect her laundered and dried clothes. Art was moving, but slowly, stiffly, tense, and Tim imagined the pain that went with each step. It struck him again that Art might take his retirement a few months early, never come back to the office except to say goodbye, and who could fault him for wanting that? Certainly not the higher ups in DC, and not anyone that knew him on the job. The position of bureau chief was supposed to be mostly administrative, but that didn't stop shit from happening.

Art stopped in the front hall, leaned heavily on the stair bannister. "Where'd you meet her?"

"She's my neighbor. Her dad's an Outlaw." Tim made a face. "Is that a problem?"

"Is _she_ an Outlaw?"

"No. At least, I haven't seen her on any bike but the pedal kind – it's the one that's now a pretzel in the back of my truck."

"Well, then, no problem. And anyway, I like her. She's got more tattoos than you. Feel a bit insecure about that?"

"You haven't seen all mine." Tim tugged at his shirt, untucking it from his pants.

"Stop right there," said Art, one arm out waving, the other covering his eyes, "and leave me with my illusions that you're clean cut and boring and conservative. I don't need to see your tattoos. I'll just take your word for it."

"But I got a couple nice ones."

"No, no, no."

Art called some advice from the door as they ran through the rain to the truck. "Tim, you might want to call over to Lexington PD, traffic. See if there've been any complaints against the cab companies. Maybe the fare called it in."

Tim signaled he'd heard.

When the truck doors were closed, Jo said, "Why do I feel like I just had the dinner-with-the-parents date?"

"They're not my parents," said Tim. "No swearing, no yelling, no taboo subjects, the food was too good, the TV wasn't on, and I didn't have this desperate desire to be somewhere else. _And_ I was the only one drinking."

"I had a beer."

"Other than you."

"My daddy would never let us watch TV during dinner, and he's a good cook."

* * *

 


	22. Chapter 22

 

* * *

"So, are we not going to talk about it? I mean I'm fine with that – I just need to know. I hate trying to guess."

Tim had the scent of vanilla, of Jo, well and truly imprinted in his senses, lying on his stomach in her bed – her choice – with one arm happily tucked over her waist and underneath her back, his head on her shoulder, breathing in her aroma again and again.

He mumbled a response. "About what?"

She tugged his arm out from under her and slid hers free, maneuvered and wiggled until she was laying the length of him, on top, nose in his cheek, hands running down his sides and resting finally by his hips. Between her and the bed, he felt pillowed in luxury and closed his eyes.

"About those murders," she said, lips brushing against the stubble on his chin.

"You don't really wanna talk about that."

"No, I don't."

"How's the mosaic coming?"

"Now _that_ is something I'll talk about whenever you want. It's coming along. I haven't had much time to work on it, but the owner is still renovating. I'll get it finished in time. I love it. It's my favorite one so far that I've done. Then again, I'm a big fan of post-impressionism – a little biased." She stopped abruptly, reversed. "But see, that's easy. It's no commitment from me at all to talk about. Do you want to talk about those murders? I'll listen."

He was going to say 'no', he was just about to say 'no', when his phone rang, and at the same time he remembered that he'd left his copy of the case folder on the side table at Art's house.

"Shit."

His phone was just out of reach. He pushed up on his hands and knees, Jo giggling and holding on for the ride, and he crawled the foot he needed to reach it, then flopped back down with a whoosh of air from them both and picked his phone up from her dresser and looked at the number.

"Isabel," he said, and answered. "Hey, having second thoughts about being my contact at the FBI?"

She was loud enough he figured Jo could hear her, especially with the phone a foot from his ear. "Gutterson, I hate you. No, not true. I love you, still. No, not true, not sure I ever did. There's a bit of lust involved though, I think. Come on back this way and let's see."

"I'm in bed with my girlfriend."

"Well, fuck me."

"Can't. I'm sure you can figure out why." Tim spoke the words then stuffed his face into a pillow, shaking his head, hoping Jo wasn't going to take things the wrong way. He was relieved to feel her giggling on top of him, the whole bed shaking with her amusement, obvious she'd heard. He turned his head and grinned up at her sideways. "What's up, Issy?" he said into the phone.

"I just want to be sure it's okay if I run this up the chain of command tomorrow. See what happens."

"What d'you think'll happen?"

"I don't know." There was a gap, and Tim pictured her working at her cigarette violently, her face intense. "There's no families clambering for answers in these cases, no media pressure, and you know what the numbers say about the BAU, right?"

"I heard." The BAU – Behavioral Analysis Unit – wasn't any better statistically at profiling and catching multiple murderers than your garden variety homicide detective or psychologist, not that Tim had any faith in anyone understanding what made someone feel the need to murder the homeless and helpless, saw their fingers off and, in some bizarre personal display, stuff the digits in the victim's mouth. The raw of it was that he didn't care what drove the killer, he just didn't want the asshole coming after anyone he knew. He didn't want anything bad happening to Max. Nothing ever got done if the motivation wasn't personal. It was the same in combat – look after your buddy and don't look like a pussy. Nothing else mattered as much, not even self-preservation, and certainly not some grand ideal. Well, Max was a buddy, and Tim wasn't going to pussy out. "Let me know what comes of it."

"So you're okay if I pursue it? You want your name on the investigation credits?"

"No." Something whispered, wanting him to keep clean of it. "No. I just want him stopped."

"Okay. I just deleted your name from the report."

"Thanks, Issy."

"My pleasure – payment for you and your incredible ability to be discreet all those times in Washington."

"If anyone was gonna get us caught, it was you."

"I hate it when you're right. I'll let you know what response I get."

"Thanks," he said again, but she'd already hung up. He tossed the phone onto the rug beside the bed.

"Who's Issy?" The question was a steamy breath on his neck.

"An FBI analyst, former Military Intelligence," he paused here, a hesitation, "uh…an ex."

"I like her accent."

"Brooklyn."

"I never had you pegged as a Casanova type."

Tim snorted at the idea. "Isabel is a fucking hurricane. If you're in her path, there's no avoiding her."

"If Isabel is a hurricane, then what am I?"

There was a calm in his head. "Rain after a long drought."

"Oooh, nice."

He smiled.

"Now, do you wanna talk about those murders? You haven't answered yet."

He did want to talk about it. He wanted her to understand what was driving him, so he drew a thin and safe outline of the killings for her ears, then a colorful and dense portrait of Max. Her laughing shook the bed again. Maybe he should introduce her to his crazy street buddy if the opportunity arose in Atlanta on the weekend – Max would likely surprise him and be the gentleman.

Tim then drew another picture for Jo, this time of Isabel, the woman who would defy her bosses and dig into a case that wasn't on her plate and agree to meet him halfway between Kentucky and Virginia mid-week to hash out the details, all for old-time's sake. He skipped the parts that happened in Washington State, the old-time's parts.

"She sounds cool," said Jo.

"She is that," said Tim.

He tried to fall asleep last, taking advantage of the time with her, warmth and vanilla and luxury, but the day demanded control and fought him to close his eyes and won, and her alarm woke him at five.

* * *

When you're used to being at the pointy end, it's hard to sit back, mop in hand, and wait for it all to be done then jump in and wipe up. Consequently, Tim was finding it tough to drum up enough enthusiasm to care about the Boyd Crowder task force that had the balls of every Marshal in the Lexington office in a vice grip, even the Marshals without balls. Not that he was going to discuss his feelings, or not do his job, but if he took a step back, which wasn't hard to do in his current frame of mind, he could be clear-headed about the whole thing, see straight through to the end, to Raylan riding off into the sunset, hat on his head, silhouetted, leaving them all behind with their mops and cleaning supplies while he fucking rode rough-shod over the entire investigation, hours of work wasted. It would end in an epic fuck-up. Boyd Crowder would get what he had coming to him, sure, but at what cost and to whom?

Maybe, Tim thought, just maybe he'd be proved wrong. But at that exact moment Raylan swaggered in from a run to Harlan, a hard look aimed well beyond the walls of the office, and Tim resigned himself to the truth – _not fucking likely._ He released a long sigh and sifted through more information from multiple reports on drug running through Kentucky.

As soon as the clock hands indicated the contractual quitting hour, Tim was up off his chair and out the door, home in record time, bag packed. He knocked on Jo's door, still no key, and no answer, so he waited. A pick-up pulled up five minutes later and Jo hopped out, waved a thank-you to the driver, a coworker, a man Tim recognized from Willie's bar. She loped down the walkway to the door and pushed up on her toes from the first step and leaned in for a kiss and Tim obliged her, bending from the top step.

"You're late."

"I had to wait for a ride." She fished out her house key, brushed past him closely, lingering and smiling. "No bike, remember?"

The closeness was distracting. "You should've called. I'd have come picked you up."

"I can manage. I don't need to put you out."

"I was kinda hoping to be on the road by now."

"I'll be quick. Just a shower and some clothes in a bag. Come sit and have a beer, Marshal Tim."

Adding his name was an improvement. "Hey, you called me Tim."

"It must be Friday." She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. "How was your day?"

"Typical. When do I get a key?"

"To my place?"

He nodded.

"You want a key?" She hesitated, looking at him, considering, then opened a drawer beside the fridge and picked out a key, checked the teeth against hers and, satisfied that it was a match, tossed it over to him.

"Shower." She pointed up. "I'll be fast."

Tim sat down on a chair by the table and slipped the key on a ring with his collection, following her up the stairs with his eyes until she disappeared at the landing. He thought about what he'd be doing later, chasing around the dingy basement of Atlanta looking for Max, and wondered why he was in such a rush to get to it. He hopped up and hurried after Jo, taking the stairs two at a time.

* * *

It was warmer in Atlanta. Down to a t-shirt and still comfortable, Tim checked his watch after searching the last of Max's usual hang-outs, another underpass, another invisible corner of the city. Nothing. There was a soup kitchen open at three in the morning to feed the hungry and Tim made his way there, a dozen blocks of empty pavement and street lights and dark doorways. He walked confidently, the message clear – I am not a victim – sub-compact tucked away. He had his concealed weapons license in order and his Marshal's star on a chain hidden in his shirt, just in case. He pushed his way past some grumbles to the front of the food line, to the volunteer handing out hotdogs and bowls of chili, and asked about Max. Nothing. He walked back past the line-up and stood a moment, wondering where to look next. Someone tapped at his shoulder.

"You looking for Max?"

The tapping finger belonged to a walking rag, maybe the convenience woman Max had spoken of the last time they had a meal together. She grinned and he tried to grin back but it came out more a grimace.

"That's right. He's a friend. I really need to talk to him."

"He's hunting," she said, whispered croak. "That's what he told me last time I saw him."

Tim pushed thoughts of what she might have been doing with Max to the back of his mind, swallowed his distaste, and focused on the task. "When did you see him?"

She stopped and stared at him. Tim waited. She turned and walked back to the line and he followed her.

"When did you see him?" he asked a second time. "Was it last night? Tonight? A few days ago?"

"You got anything to drink?"

"I can get you something. Can you tell me anything about Max? Tell me what you know about Max and I'll get you something to drink."

Her silence and her stare were completely empty. Tim sighed and moved on.

He tried to be methodical in his search but it was difficult to work a grid when you were constantly interrupted by highways and dead ends. Eventually he exhausted Max's neighborhood near the zoo and worked his way north around the Centennial Olympic Park and up to the Salvation Army shelter, the one place Max religiously avoided, hoping that maybe he'd decided, in a fog of Vietnam memories, to mess up his routine and throw off his imagined, but not imaginary, enemy.

The dark wasn't quite as dark, dawn knocking, when he completed his circuit and ended up back at his and Max's favorite diner, resting his feet, drinking a coffee and picking at some eggs. He didn't have the same appetite for the greasy food without a twenty-sixer of cheap whiskey in his stomach first, shared with his friend. The pattern of the murders played a loop in his head – two victims per city. Atlanta only had one so far.

It was after nine and sunny when he stumbled back to the hotel where he'd rented a room for him and Jo. The bed was messed but empty. She'd already left on her mission. Tim had a shower then fell onto the bed and fell asleep.

* * *

 


	23. Chapter 23

* * *

The dinner bell rang; Tim's stomach cheered. He hadn't moved since falling on the bed, woke, dragging himself out of a sleep bog slowly and coming to the realization that the bell was his phone. His stomach complained its disappointment. He tried to roll over but both arms, stretched up over his head for hours, were not responding, then responding angrily with sharp jabs and burns as the nerves and muscles and joints screamed at the abuse.

"Fuck."

He managed to sit up, shuffling to the side of the bed and looking around wearily for his pants, phone, gun. Spotting them, he stood then sat quickly down again. His left leg was asleep, numb through, the consequence of hanging off the end of the bed for too long. He slapped it and wiggled it and gingerly stood again and half-hopped to the chair where he'd dumped his stuff, found his phone and managed the password and hit the right spot on the screen to answer, but too late. Limping back to the bed he got comfortable against the headboard and checked the last call. It was the Atlanta homicide detective that he'd been playing phone tag with for days. Tim redialed the number.

"Deputy Gutterson." The voice that answered, stating Tim's name like he was expecting the return call, sounded experienced, as if jaded had a tone. "I'm almost disappointed you called me back so fast. I was hoping for a guilty dodge, a little chase, an arrest and a confession – basically, a quick wrap up to this case."

"Two and a half, fucking three weeks, is not a quick wrap up for a homicide," Tim grumbled. "Most murders are solved in the first day."

"That's true. But I'm talking about the fresher one, the one from last night. I've got only a few hours logged on it so far. And now that I've got you on the phone, I'm hoping to have it closed in less than twenty-four."

_The one from last night._ Tim checked his watch and discovered only the time, a bit after lunch. Someone was out on the streets of Atlanta the same night he was, hunting too. The feeling was back, the dread, the same dead weight tether to concrete and dirt that Tim had experienced when Art called him into his office to discuss a phone call from the Atlanta detective earlier in the month – less than a month, not even two weeks. Or had it been two weeks already? So much had happened. Where was Max?

Dazed, Tim said stupidly, "There's been another murder."

"Yes, there's been another murder, Deputy. And the only evidence we have is another one of your business cards and a burner phone with your number on it. So don't sound so surprised."

"Fuck." The word barely existed, already formed years before and waiting to come out, weary and desiccated.

"You're at the Grant Park?"

"That's right. You already chased my credit cards?"

"That's right. I'll come to you. Don't go anywhere."

"Room 401. I might be in the hotel restaurant, though. Check there first before you come up."

"Looking forward to meeting you."

"Yeah, likewise."

The detective sounded more enthusiastic than Tim.

His leg had woken up properly now. Tim splashed some water on his face and meandered, distracted, to the elevator. The elevator arrived and he stared at the empty interior until the doors closed again, then turned and meandered back to his room and ordered up some food for himself and coffee for four. Room service arrived with the Atlanta PD party, two uniforms and a detective and a confused member of the hotel staff.

"Detective James Firth." The man without the uniform introduced himself and took charge, tipping the server and waving him out the door and shutting it behind him before walking past Tim to look around the room.

Tim watched him a second then eyed the officers, said, "You really feel you need an escort, just to ask a sworn Deputy US Marshal some questions?"

"Considering your background…yes." Detective Firth read out Tim's life history from memory. "Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson, enlisted in north Alabama out of high school, served with the US Army Ranger Regiment, Spec Ops, seven deployments to Afghanistan, honorable discharge, four years with the US Marshals Service in Kentucky, good record, member of the SOG teams, sniper. I thought an armed escort was a reasonable precaution…even just for some questions."

"Better ask your questions so they can get back to work then."

"They're fine."

Tim pressed his lips into an unconvincing half smile and raised his eyebrows. "Coffee?"

"Love some, thanks."

"Your armed escort?"

The two officers shook their heads.

Detective Firth toured the room while Tim poured, stopped by a lacy pair of panties, stood looking at them and said, "Why are you giving out business cards to homeless people in Atlanta, Deputy Gutterson? That's really my only question. Well, that and…where were you last night around 2am?"

"Those aren't mine," said Tim, answering the unasked question.

And Jo bounced in.

"Geez," she said, stopping short in the doorway and taking in the scene, "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" She loped over, unconcerned, and took Tim's face in her hands, framing it, and kissed him. "I found a shitload of gorgeous tiles, got to run my hands over sheets and sheets of new glass, and I managed to match the color I'd run out of for the café too, old stock. I couldn't carry it all on the MARTA though. I'm gonna need you to come by with the truck. I'm stupid happy." She looked at him carefully. "You're not."

"I'm a bit worried about Max."

"Did you call in a missing person on him? Is that what this is? Can you do that with a homeless guy?" She turned so she was facing the detective. "Can you?"

The detective looked at Tim. "Who's Max?" He moved his eyes to Jo. "And who are you, Miss?"

"Max is a friend," said Tim, hoping, hoping that he was using the proper tense. "It's his burner phone you have. I bought it for him. And this is Josephine Emmery, my girlfriend. She's down with me from Lexington for the weekend."

"You said girlfriend again." Jo shook her head, tut-tutted. "You want to be careful with that. I warned you." But her attempts to lighten the room weren't working. She smiled at the uniformed police officers, who didn't smile back, threw another glance Tim's way, a smile for him too, a bare-attempt returned, then she side-stepped, comically, to the food tray and poured herself some coffee and sat down on the bed. "What's going on?"

Everyone ignored her.

"Can you answer the question, Deputy? Where were you last night?"

Jo smiled again, brightly, saying, "He was with…"

Tim stepped across to the bed and slapped a hand over her mouth. "Don't. Don't you dare. Perjury is not a good look for you."

"Obstruction of justice, either," the detective added, looking stern, hand on his sidearm when Tim moved.

Jo licked Tim's hand and he pulled it back quickly, glared at her while she glared back, wiped his wet palm on his pants. She looked over at the detective, jabbing a finger at him like a lecturer with a pointer. "Obstruction of justice can only happen if there's any justice around to be obstructed."

The detective pulled back. "Have you been arrested before, young lady?"

"No. Why, you like virgins?"

A different day and Tim would've enjoyed the comeback. "Fuck, Jo. Seriously, don't piss the guy off. There's been another murder and I need to see… I need to find out who the victim is. Do you understand?"

"Another murder? How many's that now – twenty-five?"

" _Twenty-five?"_ She had the detective's attention finally, fully. "I count two. How do you get to twenty-five?"

Tim wet his lips. "Jo, why don't you wait downstairs? Get yourself a beer. I'll meet you in a bit."

"Fuck off," she said, part of it humorously. "I'm paying for half this room. I'm staying."

The detective backed up, unconsciously blocking the way out. "I think I'd like her to stay. The conversation's more interesting with her…and enlightening. Sit down, Deputy Gutterson, and either answer my questions or ask for a lawyer."

"Show me the body. You got a photo?" Tim reached out a hand.

"Answer my questions."

"Show me the body and I'll talk to you about anything you want."

* * *

Tim bought Jo dinner later, splurged on a decent steak house, and she and he both ordered the sixteen-ouncer and experimented with the local beer. She had, uninvited, eaten half of the sandwich he'd ordered up to the hotel room earlier, listening while Tim and the detective shared information and gained an understanding. Tim and Jo were both still hungry hours later, hungry and relieved and content with the final sum at the end of the day.

The crime scene photos had appeared earlier in the conversation than the detective would have liked. Tim had refused to answer any questions until he'd seen the victim's face. It wasn't Max. It wasn't Max, and Tim had relaxed noticeably holding the photo, staring at an unfamiliar face laid out in a dead-end alley, then he had dug into the half sandwich left him, yawning and working his knuckles into his eyes and answering all of the detective's inquiries and explaining the investigation that was underway at the FBI offices, hopefully. He had left out any personal information about his friend, sliding lightly over Max's story, omitting completely any mention of his history, his skills and mental illness, and Jo had noticed and commented on it later over dinner, chewing on a rare bit of meat, her hand over her mouth while she talked.

"Why'd you hide it – his Special Forces history? You think he's gone after this guy, don't you?"

Tim set his fork down and picked up his beer and looked seriously at the girl across the table from him. Her eyes didn't leave his, unwavering, piercing.

"Tim, I had the police in and out of my house a thousand times growing up. I always knew my daddy was lying on purpose when he'd just forget to mention something – something that even me, at seven or eight years old, was aware was missing. He always had a reason for me when I asked him about it later. He didn't lie to me."

"Why'd you try to cover for me?"

She looked away then, concentrating on getting another bite from her steak. "'Cause I like you. You're hard to get to know, but I just don't believe you'd do something bad without a reason."

"And what's bad? I mean, to you – what's bad?"

She set down her fork, ignoring her food, focusing on the conversation. "Well, that's just it, isn't it? What is bad?" Jo shrugged. "Damned if I know. It's a shifty idea. Depends on who you're talking to and what their circumstances are."

"It might be different for me than you."

"It might. I think that's the point I'm trying to make. But it might not."

"Why didn't I offer to buy you Chinese earlier?"

Jo smiled again, that easy smile. "'Cause you're stupid."

"Maybe." The steak got interesting again, then Tim said, "Bad is not stepping up, not doing what needs to be done when you could've."

"Fair enough. So covering for you falls squarely under that definition."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

"You want dessert?"

"Damn straight," she said, sitting up. "Something with shitloads of chocolate." That easy smile again.

"You're something awesome."

"I know."

"I got a hotel room, if you're interested."

"Dessert first, _and_ tell me what's on your mind that you're keeping information from that detective."

"I have to pay for sex?"

"Nothing's free, baby. Did you not know that? I'm sorry to disillusion.."

"Fuck."

And Tim described to Jo the meat of the missions that his buddy, Max, would've been involved in, in North Vietnam or Cambodia or Laos, dropped well behind enemy lines, a target in an unfriendly jungle, hunted from the moment he stepped off the helicopter. He recounted Max's version of the mission that changed him, bombed by his own people when they drew out the enemy. He survived, came home. It came with him.

"Max is a survivor. This last murder, it wasn't like the rest. It got stopped. There was evidence that the guy started sawing the fingers, but… It was started, but it wasn't finished. It'll take a few days for them to get forensics together, but I wouldn't be surprised if they found two, maybe three different blood samples on that scene. The victim's," he counted it off on his fingers, "the murderer's, and maybe Max's."

"So you think he's doing what needs to be done?"

"I'm hoping that's why I can't find him."

"What can I do?"

There was a hint of a smile ghosting Tim's face. He was happy with his conclusion that he might still see Max again. "Pick a dessert, and shut your mouth around that detective."

"Wow, you're a charming date." She ordered something chocolate and refused to share, so he stole some then gave her half of his when she pouted. Hers was better.

* * *

 


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

It wasn't too late when they finished dinner and Tim wanted to look again for Max, wanted to see the face, the life lines and the bloodshot eyes and the dirt and the years and the experience. He wasn't sure if his attachment to Max was a selfish and self-centered reassurance that he was managing his life better than some, or maybe a connection so deep he couldn't see the bottom of it, wasn't smart enough or aware enough to understand it. Either way, the pull was beyond him to slough off and he found himself checking the laneways and alleys as they walked back to the hotel, and when they arrived he was reluctant to give up the hunt, and it showed.

"You want to keep looking for your friend?" said Jo, catching all the sideways looks past her to the shadows as they strolled and talked.

"Maybe." Tim took a step to the curb then back again.

"I could use a walk."

"There are nicer places to walk. You don't have to come."

"You see a lot more walking than driving, or even biking, really. I like walking – it's more art than utilitarian. You don't often find the time, you know? And walking with a purpose, well, that's a luxury."

He argued; she resisted. In the end he gave up, couldn't shake Jo, couldn't dissuade her, so she tagged along, keeping up, biking legs never tiring. He noticed her putting on the confidence and the steel when they got underneath Atlanta, and he commented on it.

"You got a good 'don't fuck with me' look." He grinned as he said it.

"Thank you. I learned it from a biker gang."

Tim's face betrayed his bias. "Of course you did."

"Oh, stop being such a hypocrite."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"If I have to explain it, you'll never get it."

"Is that what you're gonna say when you give up on me? Practicing, are you?"

"Ouch. The man's been burned."

Tim hated being transparent, responded with something he hoped was enigmatic enough to keep her interested. "I am what I am. All the chipping in the world isn't going to change it."

She pushed right through him. "Well, I'm glad you figured that out before you got to me. I doubt I could've explain that to you, either. See? There's hope for you yet."

Tim was more confused and tried to hide it. "Maybe."

"I've had this very conversation with my biker gang daddy."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"You are what you are, and you'll take it as you please."

"I'm hoping for some affection in that."

It was her turn to grin. "You're adorable."

"Not quite what I was hoping for."

"You are what you are."

"Shit, you're confusing the hell out of me."

"Plain English, then. It was _very_ affectionate."

"Okay."

He showed her around a part of the city not on the tourist map. After a few hours, he had to admit defeat. He was tired. Jo wasn't – she was ready to keep going, on until he was satisfied anyway. But the previous night was catching up with Tim fast, and he stumbled a few times on the uneven sidewalk. She said she was tired, though it was obvious she wasn't, and she led him back to the hotel and into the elevator and she leaned against the wall beside him and smiled. His hand moved around her back to her jeans and slid into a pocket and he tugged her closer. She turned herself so she could lean on him instead of the wall.

"That's the look I'm used to," said Tim, "not the 'don't fuck with me' look."

"And what look is this?" She waved a hand in front of her face.

"The 'let's fuck' look?" he said, hopeful.

She slapped his cheek, lightly, wagged a finger at him and frowned. "Talk nice."

"Sorry." He hung his head to hide the fact that he wasn't, and she took pity on him and invited him back to her room with a kiss, not that he had anywhere else to go.

Tim's phone rang just as he was drifting off later, exhausted, his mind running between Jo and biker gang dads and Max. Jo pushed him away when he started violently at the noise, startling her awake too. He leaned over to the bedside table and grabbed his phone, remembering as he answered that the detective had Max's burner, so it couldn't be him.

"Tim Gutterson."

"Tim? Everything alright?"

"Rachel? Everything alright?"

"Funny, I think there's an echo on the line."

Tim sat up and dropped his feet to the floor, hand wiping the sleep off his face. "What time is it?"

"Two. I got a phone call from the office this morning, Saturday morning – _Saturday,"_ she repeated, "my morning _off._ Nelson was in a flap. Some Atlanta detective was bugging the weekend crew, wanting to talk about you, something about a murder last night. I called him. We had a nice chat and that was that. But something's been niggling, and it's keeping me awake. So, for my own sake, I thought I should get in touch and make sure you weren't sitting in a jail cell."

"At two in the morning?"

"You'd rather I'd left you in lock-up until a decent hour?"

"I think the chair is getting to you. You're starting to sound like Art. I used to think it was him, but maybe it's the chair."

"You're very funny when you're sleepy. So, you're not in a jail cell in Atlanta?"

"Nope."

"But you are in Atlanta?"

"Yep, and the detective and me, we have an understanding."

"Alright then."

"Alright then."

"See you Monday."

"See you Monday."

"And I'll have you in the office, will I? Completely?"

"Yes, Ma'am. At your service."

"This is me being understanding."

"I appreciate it."

"Goodnight, Tim."

"'Night."

Jo rolled back over against him and her voice was mumbly, sleepy. "Who was that?"

"Work."

"Rachel is work?"

"Rachel is my boss, currently."

"Work owns you, doesn't it?"

"I got a bad habit of choosing jobs that own me. It's a character flaw. You might want to dump me now that you know, and track down doofus."

"Loyalty is not a character flaw."

"You're mumbling."

He waited a while for her to say something, but she was asleep again, so he joined her.

* * *

Monday was pretty much a Monday. Pretty much…until after lunch. Tim was walking between courtrooms, running paperwork around for a search warrant for the Boyd Crowder task force, weaving his way through the halls on a busy day for justice, head down in a file. The movement came from his right, behind him slightly, another group coming out of another courtroom, but this one had an outlier, a man twisting free and coming straight for him and only catching Tim's awareness as the anomaly ran straight over him, knocking him down, and then a gunshot and another, and a fist and another, and then nothing.

He came to on the hard tile floor, staring up at the marble pilasters and the hanging lights of the neo-classical grand hallway of the court house, wondering. _What the fuck?_ Rachel, and a man whose face Tim didn't recognize, were looking down at him, concerned and fussing.

"What the fuck?" Tim grumbled, tried to sit up. Two different hands held him down.

"Not so fast, buddy," said the stranger, a paramedic, Tim guessed from the uniform.

"What the fuck?" He hoped if he repeated it, someone would answer the question, however ineloquently put.

"Hospital?" asked Rachel, not speaking to him he realized as he shook his head, no, and she ignored him.

"Best to be safe. Let's get him on a stretcher."

Another paramedic appeared and Tim was hoisted onto a gurney, complaining all the way though his body wasn't cooperative enough to help him fight off the hands.

"I'm fine," he whined. "Fuck. Rachel, I'm fine."

She huffed at him and Tim huffed back and tried again to sit up and felt nauseous and lay back down himself this time, no prompting. He was left alone a moment, stretched out, dazed and staring at one of the portraits that graced the hall of the court house, the one of Daniel Boone arriving in Kentucky, the one thing in the building that he really disliked. It was so fucking pompous. And his mind wandered stupidly to the story of Wilmer Elvis Scott and William Sloan, two men awaiting trial in this very building in the 1970s, who escaped by jumping out of a third story window, and then went on a murdering spree before they were caught again. A third story window – you'd have to be desperate. It was one of the first things he was told when he arrived, a new East District of Kentucky US Marshal. The tale was important to the people in Lexington, a blight, memorable, and exaggerated likely for his benefit by the security guard working at the front entrance at the time of his tour of the building and the Marshals office.

" _You're not gonna let something like that happen again, are you?" The man had been deadly serious as he eyed Tim and presented the challenge._

" _Not fucking likely as long as I gotta gun," Tim had replied and been scowled at._

Art had said at the time, in what Tim came to recognize as his dry, disapproving tone, that the guard probably didn't appreciate Tim's choice of adjectives, so Tim had made a point to drop the F-bomb every chance he got around the main security desk. The old guy had retired last year, gave Tim an unexpected hug at his good-bye party at the bar.

Maybe, maybe someone had escaped again? Maybe Tim and his gun were caught unprepared. The idea pissed him off and scared him, lying on a stretcher in the court house hallway trying to collect the pieces of his memories of the afternoon and fit them together. What the fuck?

Raylan appeared and grinned down at him. "Hey, Tim – finally caught you napping on the job." He meant lying on a gurney but Tim took it wrong, thinking about being broad-sided by an anomaly in the hallway.

"Raylan, what the fuck happened?"

"It's open season on Tim Gutterson. It seems anyway." Raylan turned to talk to someone, giving confident orders to a local from LPD, turned back. "What the hell have you been teaching Nelson?"

"Fuck." Tim squeezed his eyes closed. "…Nelson? What happened?"

"He shot the guy dead. Brilliant shot. Whatever you're doing to him, keep doing it." Raylan grinned, said, "You're alright, don't worry," and walked away and left Tim more confused.

He started feeling nauseous again and closed his eyes and woke later in a bare room, no Daniel Boone, National Forest namesake, no pompous portrait, no over-wrought neo-classical architecture, just Jo, smiling.

"Hey, Marshal. What the hell happened to your face? Now I really am better looking than you."

"You're a sight for sore eyes."

"And your eyes look sore. You okay, Tim?"

"You called me Tim." She was wearing a strappy top and it made him smile.

"You look awful. Some guy laid into you, huh?"

"I don't have a fucking clue what happened."

"Daddy said it was a circus. Some guy tackled you and you hit your head hard on the floor and he started beating you stupid right when another guy pulled a gun and tried to shoot you but he got shot…" She waved her hands helplessly and shrugged. "But honestly, daddy found all that out afterward. He was busy pulling the guy off you who was so mad. He said the gunshots registered but he had his hands full so he didn't really see what else was going on. He said the guy who was beating on you was like fucking twice your size."

"Fuck me. Heywood Humphrey."

Tim reached a hand up then and touched his face and Jo lurched toward the bed and stopped him.

"Don't. Leave it alone. The swelling will go down fast enough. Leave it alone."

She smiled again, but this time sadly and he felt badly for her. He didn't want her sad.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

He decided not to argue. His head hurt too much to take her on. The conversation sorted itself out while he lay there trying to come up with something to say to make her feel better.

"Wait. Hold on. Your dad was at the court house? Why was he at the court house? Is he in trouble? How did you find me here?"

"Daddy figured they'd bring you here so he called and told me. There's something he wants to talk to you about. He went there to see you."

Tim thought he knew exactly what Jo's daddy wanted to talk to him about and it made him more tired. _Stay away from my daughter,_ is what he was anticipating, _biker gang family and law don't mix._ Well, no shit. _Well, shit,_ as Raylan would say. Thing was, Tim wasn't sure he was prepared to give her up. It took a dose of hospital pain killers to make him own up to the fact.

Jo moved a finger carefully across Tim's forehead and spread it into four fingers moving softly through his hair and his emotions stuck in his throat.

"What does he want to talk to me about, exactly?"

"Those murders. He thinks he knows something that might help you."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"No shit."

"You think you're the only one who finds this whole thing disgusting? He came by work this morning and took me for coffee and I told him about it all. He got a funny look, said he wanted to talk to you."

"Did he say why?"

"No, he wouldn't tell me. He's trying to keep me out of it. You know… daddies."

"Nope. I don't know. I think I have a different experience with daddies."

"You're not someone's princess."

"That's for sure."

She laughed and he felt better.

"Go tell the doctor you'll take me home and stay with me. Maybe they'll let me out."

"I'll try."

She leaned over and kissed his forehead and ran her hand down the length of him as she walked to the door, grabbing his toe at the end and squeezing. He watched her leave, at least one eye did.

* * *

 


	25. Chapter 25

* * *

"Not your type, huh?"

Tim shrugged at the jab, gingerly. A shrug never looked convincing when you were lying down, and Rachel smirked at him.

"She was trying to get past the guard we have on your door. I got the call when she wouldn't go away. 'Tim's neighbor' says the officer, so I say, 'tattoos, short hair, cute?' and he says 'yep'. I figured you wouldn't mind if she came in."

"Nah, I didn't mind."

"Jo? Short for…?"

"Josephine."

"Cute name. Art told me about her."

"You two gossip like a pair of old women."

Rachel only smiled coyly in response.

Jo had tried, but had no luck convincing the doctors that Tim could come home with her. Eventually she had gone home alone, needing some sleep before work in the morning. She and Rachel had passed in the hallway – Tim could hear them talking – and he knew Rachel wasn't about to let the opportunity slide to tease him, and to gloat a little for being right in her prediction. He had braced himself for it before she had even walked into his room with, "Not your type, huh?" At least it wasn't a blatant _I was so right,_ or _I know you better than you even know yourself._ Which was true enough – she apparently did know him better than he knew himself, and it pissed him off. He was grumpier about it all than he should have been, but he was stuck in a hospital room again. It might even be the same one. It was the same color.

"Jo." Rachel said her name again and her eyes questioned, wanting some kind of confirmation of her abilities to read people.

Tim pretended not to get the hint for more information about his love life. Instead, he asked for some information about his work life. "So what the fuck happened today? I only got pieces, a bit from Jo, who wasn't even there. The usual cryptic bullshit from Raylan."

Her hand brushed his, and she offered her version of sympathy, and an apology for kicking him, however so gently, when he was down. "Hey, first off, how are you feeling? You look a little…" Rachel grimaced and left off the descriptor.

"Oh, I've been worse off."

"Not often, I'll bet."

"I didn't lose any teeth." The grin he added hurt, his lip swollen.

"It was pretty impressive how much force Heywood Humphrey could get into a handcuffed two-handed punch. I'm amazed your nose isn't broken, or your cheek bones or something. Maybe it was better that he almost knocked you out when he slammed you against the floor. You were more…rubbery." Rachel grimaced again. "Nelson did good," she said, changing the topic.

"Raylan said he shot someone."

"Brian Carvill."

"Brian Carvill? Why is that name fam…?" Something jammed in his brain, and when it finally slid loose, it spit out a series of pictures: three stacked bodies, an interview room at a prison, sitting in the car with Rachel and a list of people to be questioned, before Art was shot, before Jo and a bed, before a series of dead bodies and detached significant digits, a long-barreled Desert Eagle with his name on it, a quick shot and a dead Carvill, but Patrick Carvill, not Brian Carvill. He hadn't met Brian Carvill. "Shit. Their mother should have stopped at two."

"Maybe she should've stopped at none. They're all trouble, or were. Anyway, sorry, for what it's worth. I should've sent somebody else to Big Sandy to question the brother." She waved a hand, looked up and left, remembering. _"Darryl_ Carvill, right? I guess he talked to his brother after, put the idea in his head to come after you. We could try to get him on conspiracy."

"Forget it. He's already in for murder. And, Rachel, this is not your fault. I probably shouldn't have told him it was me that shot Patrick."

"You told him?"

"Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. It got the interview going."

"Wait till Art hears about this."

"You wouldn't?!"

The sound that came out of Rachel's mouth was a loud affirmative. "Leslie's desperate for things to keep him amused. I wouldn't deny her."

"Shit. Why me? Can I go home?" Tim tried to look pathetic, but couldn't top how pathetic he already looked.

"No. But I can." She smiled to soften the taunt. "The doctor said no, no, and no. I already asked him because I knew you'd start complaining. I'll make sure someone comes around in the morning to give you a ride."

Tim looked around the room again. He hated hospitals. There was no particular reason he could think of to hate them so much, except the lack of privacy, and, of course, the obvious – you only found yourself in one if something shitty had happened.

Rachel stood up to go.

"Wait," he said. "You haven't told me what happened yet."

"I'll give you a full report tomorrow. I still haven't completely sorted it out myself. I need to talk to Nelson." She patted his shoulder and left.

Tim waited until the door closed then said, "Fuck off," and growled, and then he indulged in some self-pity.

* * *

Jo snuck back in early the next day, five in the morning, before work, brought him some clean clothes and a fresh coffee and wiggled her way awkwardly onto the bed with him, trying to figure out which part to hug. He fell back to sleep when she left a half hour later, vanilla and antiseptic, woke again to the sight of Nelson sitting comfortably in a chair in the room. He looked different, tired.

"Hey," said Tim.

"Hey," said Nelson.

"I hear you nailed him – one nice shot, quick and clean and no hesitation."

Nelson nodded, jerky and tense.

"That was your first kill, wasn't it?"

Another nod. "Raylan, um, he took me for a drink and we talked a bit."

"Did it help?"

"Not really…maybe…I dunno."

"It'll be okay. You think it through and you can't figure out how else it could've gone down. And then it's fine."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Hey, thanks. The guy was gunning for me, I was told. If I remember right, the word Raylan used to describe your shot was 'brilliant.'"

"Really?" The clouds parted and Nelson shone through.

"Yep."

Nelson pointed at Tim, then himself, somewhere in the vicinity of his left eye. "Your face looks better today."

"Better? Better than what?"

That produced a smile and a chuckle and they both laughed.

With a little prodding, Tim finally got the details of yesterday's events in some sort of meaningful order from Nelson. It was five minutes of shaky camera action, and Tim suspected the story would be different depending on who was relating it. But however you spun it, it was an interesting chain of actions and reactions. Brian Carvill disarming a security guard and firing off a round in the courthouse main hall, Heywood simultaneously manhandling his handlers and tackling the target of all his rage, Tim, a man in leather and Outlaw colors diving into the melee to help pull Heywood off before he could get through Tim's thick skull and mash his brains into the floor, Nelson reacting in the middle of it and drawing and shooting Carvill, dropping him efficiently and neatly, all these pieces combined and coalesced into a bizarre but undeniable conclusion for Tim, the conclusion that his life had been preserved by the three most unlikely people in the world – Nelson Dunlop, Heywood Humphrey, and Jo's biker gang daddy.

"Well, fuck me," said Tim, after Nelson had finished his account, breathless.

"I don't know who the guy was who pulled Heywood off, but man, he had a killer right fist to be able to take down someone that size with one swing."

"That was Jo's daddy."

"Who's Joe?"

"My girlfriend." There, he'd said it again.

"Joe?"

"Josephine – Jo."

"Oh."

"Where's the doctor? I need to get out of here."

* * *

Someone had turned off his phone. Tim didn't notice until he'd been home a few hours. There were three messages waiting. The first was a call from Isabel – she sounded angry, but then again she always sounded angry, a long sentence hammered into a voicemail that could be summarized with two words, 'call me'. The second was from Art, wanting to talk. The third was from his buddy, Ryan – he was bored again and dealing with his frustration by calling Tim and leaving a string of expletives as a message. It was an impressive string, some creative cursing. It cheered Tim up to hear it. He called Ryan first, got his answering service and returned the volley with a short and concise "Fuck you" that he thought was brilliantly played, suited to his sniper training. He dialed Isabel next.

She answered in one ring. "What the hell took you so long to get back to me? I called you yesterday."

"Hey, Isabel. Nice to hear from you, too."

There was a long pause but without the sound of smoke being inhaled, and that wasn't in character.

"Is everything alright?" Tim said, hoping he hadn't gotten her in trouble again.

"I was just about to ask you that. You sound off."

"Uh, pain killers."

"What happened?"

"I got run over by a bull moose."

"In Kentucky?"

"It's a metaphor."

"For what?"

"For a really big and violent asshole."

"Yeah, I got a few of those in my building, so if you attract them naturally, it might be dangerous for you here…and for me."

"Thanks for the heads up. I don't have any plans to go to Virginia in the near future. Uh, did I get you in trouble?"

"No. You sound awful."

She was evading. "Really?"

"Yeah. Nasally."

"Issy, have you got some bad news for me?"

"How did you know?"

It wasn't much of a surprise, Isabel's news. _Good girl. Go fetch._ And they'd tossed her a bone, her seniors at the bureau. _We feel your talents would be appreciated more hunting down connections in relation to the missing daughter of…_ _We'll pass this report on to our Behavioral Sciences Unit._ There were multiple cases to get priority over the killing of street dwellers, victims that could be easily ignored for the more politically advantaged. Isabel raged and Tim listened, sympathetic, recognizing the bitterness underneath it all, the sour taste that defined Isabel these days. There was nothing innocent left for her, and she hooked onto any cause that carried that bitter knowledge, that would reinforce for her everything that was wrong in this world. He shouldn't have called her in on it. He should've known better than to rub that wound.

"Hey," said Tim, interrupting her outrage. "Hey, we'll figure it out. We'll work it out. Don't worry."

"How?"

"I don't know. Give me a day to sweat out some serious pain killers and I'll give it some thought. I'm not thinking clearly enough today."

"Are you okay?"

"Just a bit pulpy. I'll live."

"Call me when you're clean."

"Will do."

Will do. Will do what? Tim stared at his phone, feeling a bit down even if he were back home on his couch.

He'd left Art's return call until last, expecting a downpour of sarcasm that he wasn't feeling up to dealing with. But it was Art. He braced himself and dialed.

"You home?"

"Yep."

"I'll come to you. Christ, I need to get out of here."

"I don't mind coming…"

Art had already hung up. Tim walked to the bathroom and had a good look at his face.

The doorbell rang fifteen minutes later and Art was standing on the step with Leslie. She looked apologetic, already retreating guiltily to the car until she saw Tim. She stopped.

"Oh, honey," she said, reaching up and gently putting a hand on his cheek. "You should be more careful. Were you out alone?"

"Leslie, I told you," Art said, snapping. "It happened at the court house."

She looked at her husband like it was his fault that Tim had two black eyes and splits and bruises. "How could it? That place is supposed to be secure."

Art rolled his eyes and waved her off the step. "Go on. Get some time off from me."

A quick squeeze on Tim's shoulder in support, Leslie wagged a finger at Art. "Don't tire him out." Then called out as she left, "I'll be back to pick him up, Tim. You feel free to call him on it if he gets grumpy. Don't put up with it."

Tim smiled as best he could and nodded, "Yes, ma'am." They both stood dumbly and watched her drive off.

"Hey, boss," said Tim, finally acknowledging his presence when Leslie and the car cleared the street. He moved to let Art in. "Has she used the 'D' word yet?"

"Divorce? Not yet. Couldn't blame her though, if she did. I've been a right pain in the ass." Art clomped past Tim and made his way to the kitchen. "You got some bourbon?"

"Pretty sure."

"Pour me a glass."

Anyone else and Tim would've told them to fuck off, but not Art. He went to the cupboard and did what he was told and sat across the table from him.

"Shit, Tim, you look like a Saturday night barbecue, pre-grill."

"Trust me, this is well done." He pointed to his face as he said it.

"I believe it." Art smacked his lips in anticipation and sipped, drank up a bit of his old life then sat back in the chair and eyed his deputy. "Rachel tells me Nelson made the shot – outdrew everyone down there in the hall, and stopped a bad situation getting tragic."

"Apparently he did. I missed it."

"He'll be alright."

"That's what I told him."

"Looks like the extra practice is paying off." Art nodded. "I could only say this to you, and probably Raylan, but I think it'll be good for Nelson moving forward, having this shooting under his belt. I hate to say it though."

"Then don't."

"Okay. I take it back."

"I didn't hear a thing."

"You not drinking?"

Tim stood and got another glass and helped himself, and then Art got into what had brought him over. It wasn't sarcasm or a scolding or even teasing – it was thirty-three years of case work experience, and a month of boredom. Art had set the file down on the table between them when he came in, the file that Tim had left on Art's table the previous week, the crime scene photos and reports, and Tim had assumed Art was returning it, and that's all, an assumption that worked well until Art opened the folder and spread the reports out, layered, not chronologically, as Tim had left them, but by city first and then by date. The reports were paired, two in each location, separated by years, then months, weeks, and days finally as they got closer to the top of the pile, the spread in time shrinking as the murders became more current. Art pointed out the dates, a post-it note attached to each pair with the time between calculated and written out.

"I think you've got two killers, Tim." And then Art explained his reasoning, and Tim listened because it explained a pattern. He listened because it made sense.

* * *

 


	26. Chapter 26

* * *

When the doorbell rang around five that evening, Tim was expecting Jo, and that's why his guard was down. Of course, if he'd stopped to think about it, he would've remembered that she hadn't once bothered ringing the doorbell since the first night he'd slept with her – if the door was unlocked, she waltzed in, and if the door was locked, she had a key and she wasn't afraid to use it. But he was on some mild pain killers and a little alcohol, and he also had the excuse that he was distracted, chewing on Art's theory of two murderers.

At first, the theory had seemed unlikely, just a coincidence of patterns, but, after Leslie had come to collect her husband, Tim had spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the possibility. He separated the reports into the two piles that Art had made trying to keep himself busy on his disability leave. The reports were chronologically stacked, the first murders from each location in one pile, the second in another. The result was fascinating and Tim could see why Art had come to the conclusion that there were two killers. The first murders in each city were sporadic, sometimes a year between, sometimes months, beginning fifteen years ago, but the second murders followed a regular schedule, one a month over the past year, a grisly tour of major American centers. Art's theory became more believable when Tim plotted out the time lag between the killing pairs in each location. They grew consistently, relentlessly, closer together in time, until this last set in Atlanta, set number thirteen, only a couple of weeks apart. It was as if someone had joined the game late and was playing catch-up, in proper sequence and following the same rules.

Nice game.

He then laid out the crime scene photos too, in their respective piles, pouring over them for similarities and differences. Nothing stood out except the timelines.

By the time the doorbell rang, Tim was convinced Art was right, there were two killers, and he was caught up in the daunting implications of this discovery. He felt a little desperate. It seemed an impossible task catching one anonymous and random killer, and now there were likely two, and no one gave a fuck except him and Max and Isabel. He pushed back his chair from the kitchen table and walked, distracted, to the front door – it was unlocked but that didn't register – and he opened it without thinking, without checking who it was, already turning around to head back to his piles, expecting Jo to follow.

"Hey!"

It was a deep, sharp, and aggressive summons, a command – not Jo – and it stopped Tim before he had taken more than a few steps. He turned abruptly to face the front door again, and his hand twitched to his hip and then the back of his pants – no side holster, no back holster, no ankle holster, no handgun, not one.

"Are you okay? You look a bit out of it." It was Jo's dad. He leaned forward on the door frame, arms spread, face up close to the screen, confident and aggressive, the same pose as the first time he came knocking. "I think you wanna invite me in," he said, a single pin, two piston, syncopated Harley Davidson engine of a voice.

Tim liked the voice, not so sure about the man.

Jo's dad dropped a hand down and reached behind him and pulled something out from hiding.

_This is it,_ was what passed through Tim's head in disgust, _I'm dying today because I'm distracted. Now that's fucking stupidly fucked up._

But what came into view wasn't a gun, like Tim was expecting from the man whose daughter he was sleeping with, it was a harmless piece of paper that was carelessly unfolded and pushed up against the screen while Tim watched, waiting to die.

"You'll wanna have a look at this. I'm pretty sure it's something to do with that shit you're digging into as a hobby. Some fucking hobby, by the way."

Tim hesitated, still uncertain, but recalled who had saved his life yesterday so decided he owed the man at least the courtesy of a chance to kill him today. He walked to the screen door and pushed it open. The nice chopper was parked on her walkway again, and Tim wondered how he missed the sound of it pulling up. Distracted, he figured, and promised himself to be more attentive in the future. "Come on in," he said, hoping he wouldn't regret it.

They eyed each other, making a tentative truce, silently, then the man clomped in, biker boots still on, followed Tim down the hallway to the kitchen.

"I was just about to pour myself a bourbon," said Tim. "Join me?"

"Sure."

"Jo told me you didn't drink."

"Never in front of her and never very much. But I think I need a whiskey if I gotta sit friendly across the table from the man who's sleeping with my daughter, especially since he happens to be a US fucking Marshal."

Tim tried to decide if Jo's dad were more likely to be pissed at someone for sleeping with his daughter or for being a Marshal. "We could both use a drink then, I guess," he said, undecided.

"I guess so." The man stopped just inside the kitchen and looked at the stacks of reports and grisly photos on display on the table, then stepped backward out into the hall and peered down it and on through the screen. "Better make it a small one. She might be home soon."

Tim did as asked and handed it over. "I'm Tim Gutterson."

"Jack Emmery," – an awkward handshake – "Your face looks better than I thought it would, considering."

"Yeah? What's she been saying to you about me then?"

It took a second for Jack to conclude that Tim was making a joke. He grinned, a bit of acceptance, but still not very friendly. "She makes any guy she's with look ugly."

It was Tim's turn to grin. "I'd have to agree with that."

And Jack Emmery nodded.

His head was still pounding and his neck was stiff, so Tim slid into a chair and propped the hurting bits up on his elbow. Jack joined him, setting his glass on the table and shrugging out of his leather jacket and dropping it on the back of a free chair. He slapped the paper he was still holding in front of Tim, patting it out flat, then sat down across from him and leaned in. It was a bad printer copy of a photo, pointillism in grainy pixels, blurred, but the subject matter was clear enough. Jack tapped it with the thick index finger of his right hand, the letter D tattooed on the knuckle, completing the word HARD if you lined it up with the rest of the digits. Tim was happy it was Heywood Humphrey and not him that felt the truth of that tattoo. He wondered what was on the other set of knuckles.

"This look familiar?" Jack said, bringing Tim's attention back to the page.

It did. It looked like one of the crime scene photos. Tim examined it carefully then pushed it aside and started flipping through the pictures that Isabel had provided for him, looking for a match. He found it, sort of, same scene, same victim, different perspective.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Deep web."

"Deep web?"

"Dot onion."

"Yeah, I know it. I got TOR on my machine. I have a contact site on there with some former Ranger buddies so we can…uh…" Tim was taking a route he hadn't planned on taking, didn't want to share. He backed out and took a different turn. "Law enforcement and military, we use it all the time. But…shit, how did you find this in all that? Who put it up? Is it…? That's a huge fucking coincidence that you have this."

Jack sat back and clasped his hands behind his head, his t-shirt stretching tightly over arms like footballs. "I'm not sure just what I'm willing to discuss with you about my business. Let's just say I was being given a tour of all the wonders of the deep web by a guy who's a geeky and integral part of my job."

Tim could imagine it. The Outlaws probably dealt in firearms and drugs, maybe even contracts, on the other world wide web, the one underneath the public internet. Why wouldn't they get in on e-business too? They'd need a tech guy then for sure. A question came to him, completely irrelevant. "Does he have a bike?"

Jack chuckled, and Tim thought briefly about asking if he could take the man's Harley for a ride, his laughter sounding like an engine starting. It brought on a longing.

"Yep, he has a nice ride."

"I had a bike when I was still in the Army. Washington State's not exactly a good place for a motorcycle, but when the sun's out, those mountain roads are fun."

"What happened to it?"

"I sold it to a buddy, still in, when I left. Haven't replaced it yet." Tim shrugged. "I've been busy."

"Kentucky's a nice place for riding."

"Yeah, I'll bet."

"Army, huh?"

"Ranger."

"Jo says you were a sniper."

"Still am. It's not something that wears off."

"You any good?"

Tim smiled, figured that was enough to get the message through.

"You got a preference for hardware?"

The question seemed like a test and Jack watched Tim carefully when he answered.

"Oh, I'm a bit of a gun whore. There's nothing I won't shoot. I just got a new H&K P30s that I'm falling for, hard – those Germans sure know how make a handgun. But I'm all US of A with my rifles."

Jack nodded again, whether in agreement or acknowledgment of personal taste, Tim couldn't tell. He brought his hands back down to the table and the tattoo across the left one was then readable – FAST. HARD and FAST. Tim warmed a bit more to Jack Emmery, thinking of those words in relation to Heywood Humphrey.

"There's some freaky shit out there," said Jack, chin pointing at the photocopy of a killing, back to the main topic. "Ky showed me that."

"Ky?"

"That's my geeky webster. He was trying to impress me, I think, showed me some stuff that he thought would make me squeamish. Some guy had this posted. I guess it'd be hard to figure out who from those sites on the deep web. This kind of shit pisses me off. Fucking psycho. You wanna meet him?"

"Damn fucking straight I want to meet him."

"I meant Ky." Jack seemed to understand that Tim meant the psycho. He grinned at the mistake, a little more acceptance.

"Yes, I'd like to meet Ky, if you can arrange it."

"I can do that. I'll do it because Jo asked. But there will be no questions beyond this shit." Jack waved at the photocopy. "No bothering this kid later about other stuff. If any of your type visit him any time soon for anything else, I'll just assume it was you that turned him in."

There was no pretending that wasn't a threat, HARD and FAST, and Tim shifted his eyebrows around to their cheeky and challenging position and pressed his lips into something non-committal and flat, and then he wondered how that looked with the bruising, and his lip and one eye still puffy. In the end, he figured the effort was probably wasted. He drank his bourbon casually and easily and hoped that got the message across.

"And I thought you were gonna warn me away from Jo," he said, wanting to touch on the subject, sidling up to it.

"I should, but I'd be a fucking hypocrite, wouldn't I?"

Tim thought about it and decided there was truth to it, but he couldn't quite clearly see what that was.

Jack was waiting for a response, and when he didn't get one, he continued with what he had to say on that subject. "My ex was determined to make Jo's life miserable. Just poison, that woman. I chased her out of the state. I'd never hit a woman, but I have no trouble beating the living shit out of a man. I love my girl. You fuck with her and I promise you'll regret it."

Tim mulled the idea that maybe he was already regretting it.

There was a noise outside, a truck, a door closing, then rattling at the screen, a tentative call from the hallway, "Tim?"

Jack leaned forward again, said quietly but not softly, "That's my baby." He tapped the photo. "I don't want her involved in this shit."

"Too late."

"You keep her away from it."

"I hear you."

They both stood up when she appeared at the kitchen doorway, an easy smile gracing the room, her voice almost a song.

"Hey, it's my two most favorite and stubborn, hard on the outside and soft on the inside, men." Her smile shifted to something not quite so easy when she was greeted with silence. "What are we doing for dinner?"

Tim shuffled his reports and photos back into the folder, watching while Jo's daddy picked up his leather jacket and kissed his girl.

"I'll arrange a meet," said Jack, nodding once back at Tim, a curt, business-is-done acknowledgment of their arrangement.

"I'd appreciate it."

"But right now, I got places to be. I'm sorry, honey," he added when Jo pouted. "We'll have dinner another time."

"You're not going just 'cause he's a cop are you?"

"Hey, I told you," said Tim, "I'm not a cop. I'm a…"

"US Marshal, blah, blah. I know. I suspect you all look the same to him, though." She gestured at her dad, then at Tim. "And vice-versa."

"You're right, honey, they do all look the same. They all look like trouble to me," said Jack, more a growl, " – especially this one. Give me a hug and I'll leave you two alone."

She walked him out and Tim sat back at the table and rested his head again on his elbow, picked out from the folder the photocopy that Jack had brought with him and left behind, and stared at it.

Jo loped back down the hall and into the kitchen, pulled a chair around close beside him and leaned in and very gently kissed his lips. Any regrets he might have mulled over earlier disintegrated in the potion of needs swirling inside him just then.

"Hey," he said, when she pulled back just an inch to see if she'd hurt him, kissing him like that. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to have her stay. He slid the photocopy back into the folder and pushed it back, away from her.

"You look like you might be able to eat some soup," she said.

He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, shredded in spots. "Leslie thought so too. She's feeling sorry for me. She brought me some gourmet stuff from that shop on Main."

Jo stood and examined the jar on the counter, then looked through his cupboards for a pan, humming. She found one she liked and opened the jar of soup and poured it out.

"What're you humming?"

"A song."

"No shit. Does it have words?"

"You won't like it."

"Maybe."

Jo started singing.

_"High cost of love,_   
_Bearing down on me,_   
_Doesn't seem like I could afford love,_   
_Even if I got it free._   
_Oh, I can't get no relief,_   
_I can't get no relief._   
_So many times in my life,_   
_I've envied the thief,_   
_Oh, I envied the thief."_

Tim got out two bowls and two spoons and thought about what he was stealing.

* * *

 


	27. Chapter 27

* * *

"To love and to cherish; to have and to strangle-hold." Jo took a step back. "I don't want that – do you understand? I don't care if you don't come by for a day or two. I've got things to do." She jabbed a finger on her chest, hammering the point, backing away from Tim. "I've got things to do. I don't need you, but I need a bike."

"Why are you crying?" And she was; she was crying, tears running from both eyes now, voice catching with each breath. Tim only suggested he help her buy a car to replace her bike and it went from that to this. Granted, in between there had been a discussion about the safety issues of biking on the road, of biking in the rain, of biking in the snow, of biking without a fucking helmet. He thought it was reasonable; he thought she'd welcome a proper vehicle. It made sense to him. "Why are you crying? We're talking about a car, not…I dunno, whatever is you think we're talking about."

"I'm upset, okay – I'm just…" She slapped her hands where they fell, on her legs, and glared and sniffed.

"Yeah, I can see you're upset, but…why?"

"Because you don't understand!"

"What do I need to understand? Tell me, please."

"That I _need_ a bike."

"Okay, I understand," he said. "– I think. You need a bike. I get it."

"But do you understand why?"

"No."

"Fuck." She wiped the backs of her hands across her eyes. "I like my bike, alright? That's just me. Don't…" Her head shook back and forth – no. "Don't you do this."

"Alright." Tim sat back down at the table, hoped it might help diffuse things a bit, lower the tension.

"I want a bike and I'm gonna get a bike and I don't want you being…"

"Jo, it's okay with me. Get a bike – that's fine. No car. Okay?" He held up his hands, surrendering.

"Okay." She looked lost. "But if you're gonna try and take a bike away from me, or… I'm just not… But I need it to be okay with you, 'cause I like waking up with you. You see? But if it's not okay, then…I dunno…"

"Hey, I like falling asleep with you."

"Okay then."

"Okay."

She took a breath, air in to replace the anger run out, took a step toward Tim, then another to close the distance, eyes studying the floor, a spot somewhere between them, middle distance. "So, your place or mine?"

"I don't give a fuck. Just… What you… Whatever."

"Great. My place then, so maybe you'll stay in bed till the alarm goes off. And I am going to replace my bike. I don't want a car."

"Okay. I get it."

She took the last step up to him, grabbed his shirt in a handful, center-front, and pulled him off his chair and toward the door, leaving the dirty soup bowls and the pan on the table. He picked up his gun and keys as she dragged him down the hall and he managed to lock up on his way out, still being yanked by Jo. She was gentle with him though when they got to her bedroom, and he fell asleep with her and she woke up with him.

Tim was shuffling the pieces of his bizarre argument with Jo around in his mind on his way to work the next morning, trying to sort out what had been said and unsaid, and what a bicycle had to do with anything. The only fact he could squeeze out of it was that she needed a bike, and he'd help her get one because he liked her happy and singing. She had a nice voice to listen to, inherited the bit of roughness in the tone from her dad. Tim had discovered the similarities in the timbre and cadence of their voices yesterday, sitting in his kitchen listening to them, each in turn. He thought about his conversation with Jack too, in the gaps when he was hopelessly lost in the maze of his argument with Jo. He was walking to the rhythm of their voices, their single pin, double piston, oddly syncopated speech, when he got to the bullpen, distracted, and too distracted to notice and correct his focus, and fortunately also too distracted to notice the sympathetic looks and grimaces from his coworkers when they caught sight of him. He stopped at his desk, still frowning about a bike and a grainy photo, dropped his keys on a stack of files and looked out the window. He had come in a little late, but no one who saw the evidence of the beating begrudged him the time.

"Your face matches your shirt, Tim. Nicely done." Raylan smiled on his way past to the hallway and the elevator.

Tim looked down at his deep blue shirt, a quip ready, but Raylan had fired on the run, out the door before Tim could get it out.

A Harlan County deputy pushed through the same doors into the Marshals Office a minute later, pushing Boyd Crowder in handcuffs in front of him, just missing Raylan in the hallway. Rachel waved them through to the conference room. "Welcome back, Mr. Crowder. Nice to see you again," she said coolly. "Thank you, Deputy. If you'd just deposit him in there."

"Yes, ma'am."

"What's this all about?" Tim was still standing in front of his desk, turned to see what was going on.

"How are you feeling today?" said Rachel, stopping.

"Fine, thanks. How are you?"

Rachel planted a fist on her hip, frowned at him. "I'm fine, but I'm not the one with the colorful mug. Are you okay to be here?"

"Yes, I'm okay to be here. No mirrors."

"Fine, but you will stay _here._ I've got lots of follow-up calls and database digging to do and you're my guy considering..." She waved her hand at his face. "Grab a seat."

"Yeah, okay. Hey, can I some fun with Crowder before I get down to it? I just like to hear the sentences he puts together. They're fucking biblical."

"Be my guest."

"Why's he here?"

"We just want to ask him a few questions about some bodies that turned up in Detroit. Probably not related at all."

"In other words, we're harassing him."

"Pretty much."

"Yippee, sounds like fun." Tim grinned carefully for her then headed to the conference room, crossed his arms and addressed Boyd, "Mr. Crowder, I was thinking we should just get you your own desk."

"Son, what happened to your face?"

There was no way in hell Tim was going to answer that question; he kicked it to the side. "Seriously, you're here more than Raylan. Maybe you could take over his seat." Leaving his arms crossed loosely, Tim swiveled and gestured in the direction of Raylan's desk, the hat resting on the shelf behind the only indication that Raylan occupied the spot at all.

Boyd turned and looked, pretended to consider the offer. "That would mean sitting next to you, if I recall the floor plan of this office correctly?"

"Yep."

"Well, thank you very much for looking to my comfort, Deputy, but the United States Marshals Service has a cloying odor to it that offends my senses. I prefer my desk at the bar."

Tim raised his eyebrows. "I'd prefer a desk at a bar too. Maybe I'll move instead, next to you. We could play Scrabble over a beer at lunch break."

"I only like to indulge in a game of Scrabble when I have a partner who can string something more challenging than a three-letter word together."

"Now I know that's not true. You played with me once."

"I do not recall having a choice. You had a gun."

"There's a three-letter word I like to use, but I'm good at four-letter words too. I didn't realize we were playing that kind of Scrabble. I'd've upped my game."

Boyd ignored him, looked annoyed and inconvenienced.

"Tim?" Nelson poked his head in. "Are you busy?"

"Sorry, you'll have to excuse me," – an apologetic head tilt for Boyd Crowder – "Love chatting, but I gotta go." And Tim followed Nelson back into the bullpen. "What's up?"

"You got a few phone calls yesterday while you were lazing around your house."

"When did you develop an attitude?"

Nelson smiled, pleased.

Tim wasn't sure he meant it as a compliment, but truthfully, Nelson seemed more confident today and it looked good on him. Art's comment came to mind, _"I think it'll be good for Nelson moving forward, having this shooting under his belt."_ The man knew his people.

"So who called?"

"You know, your face looks better already this morning."

"I don't think I've ever had so many people interested in my face. Maybe I should try modeling?"

"You're too short," said Rachel, walking past.

"Fashion world's loss." The shot back hit laughter.

"LPD called." Nelson held up a pink message note, bringing Tim's attention back to his topic. "Something about a cab company and an accident report? Rachel said your girlfriend was run off the road on her bike, and so I figured it was something to do with that, so I called them back and got the info. They said there've been a few complaints about this one driver – mostly fares calling in – and they said they got a call the night Jo – it's Jo, right? – got hit. So…" Nelson trailed off and handed Tim a slip of paper. "Is she alright?"

"Yeah, she's fine. Just a few scrapes. Her bike, though, not so much."

"Did he stop?"

"No."

"What an asshole."

"Yeah, I think I'm going pay him a visit. You wanna come along?"

"Uh, yeah, sure."

"You drive. Rachel doesn't want me out of the office today."

"Well, then, you shouldn't go."

"She won't mind this, not if you're along and driving. And it's not, strictly speaking, Marshal business."

"Uh, okay." Nelson trailed after Tim to his desk, held out two more messages. "And you got a call from Miami PD, Homicide, and Atlanta PD, Homicide. I returned those too, in case it was important, left messages. What're you looking into? Is this to do with Crowder?"

Tim took the pink slips and set them on his desk for later. "No, something personal."

"Something personal involving two homicide detectives?"

"Let's not."

"You have to admit, it's a bit odd."

"Jesus, you've just sprouted attitude, like fucking overnight."

"Alright, forget it."

* * *

"I've had a bad month." Tim started the conversation and it didn't take long for it to finish, just like it didn't take long to tap into the Kentucky DMV database and get an address for the cab driver. Tim directed and Nelson drove and they pulled up at an apartment block and talked their way in and up to the man's apartment and Tim knocked and that's how he started the conversation when the man opened the door.

"I've had a bad month." Tim repeated it after he stepped around the cab driver and into his apartment. "I just feel like messing somebody up. It might help with the frustration, you know? Actually," – he stopped halfway into the main room and turned around – "actually, I really feel like shooting somebody, but I'd be happy with just messing somebody up. And I'd be especially happy if that somebody were the asshole that hit my girlfriend with his cab last week and left her and her wrecked bike in a puddle on the side of the road. You wouldn't happen to know where I could find that asshole now, would you?"

He left with a confession, and the pleasure of seeing the man arrested for fleeing the scene of an accident. It would have to do. Nelson was pleased – he'd been worried that Tim was going to assault the man, or shoot him, and that he'd have to try and stop him. He said as much when they walked to the car, following two members of the Lexington Police Department and the asshole in handcuffs.

"Glad it's not you in handcuffs. I was a bit, uh, worried."

"I'm too sore to get into it with anyone. I don't really like fighting anyway. Everybody gets hurt when you're fighting – there's no avoiding it." Tim lifted a hand and touched his eye, imagining the purple. "Now I just gotta find Jo a new bike. She misses her old one. She likes biking…a lot, apparently. Apparently I don't understand how much."

"There's a good bike shop not far."

"Her last bike was a nice one. She can't afford to replace it with something equal. Me neither, for that matter. I was gonna help her get a car. You can get a loan for a car."

"You should try the Marshals auctions. There's one this weekend in Louisville. You can get a nice bike cheap that way."

"Shit, Nelson, that's a good idea."

* * *

"What part of 'stay in here,'" – at that word, Rachel waved an arm encompassing the grandeur of the bullpen – "did you not understand?"

"Fuck, Rachel, if you were bald, I'd swear you were Art."

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes and dug in, appeared to be prepping for a good lecture. Fortunately for Tim, he still looked enough like tomorrow's barbecue, raw and pathetic, to get some leniency from her. She settled for a simple question. "Where were you?"

"I went to see the guy who ran Jo off the road. And I know you know all about it because you and Art…" Tim brought up a hand and motioned the universal sign for talking.

Rachel turned to Nelson. "I'm afraid to ask. What happened?"

"The guy confessed and we called LPD and he was arrested for hit and run." Nelson shrugged, the story boring.

"He confessed…just like that?"

"Pretty much."

"That's all?"

"That's all," said Tim. "So Boyd left?" He tried to change the subject.

"Yes, we cut him loose about half an hour after you two disappeared."

"Did you at least offer him a ride back to Harlan? That's one hell of a hike."

"No."

"Oh, you're mean." Tim and Rachel shared a grin.

"It's a nice blue," she said, reached up and gently touched under his left eye.

"Fuck off."

* * *

 


	28. Chapter 28

* * *

There were two nice choppers on Jo's walkway when Tim arrived home that evening. He wandered over to have a look, did a slow tour of each bike admiring, dreaming, finally reached out to run his hand over the artwork on Jack's gas tank.

"Hands off."

The rough notes blasted out from the house and Tim turned to the voice, Jack's blurred figure through the screen at Jo's door.

Smiling, Tim said, "Sorry, but some things just cry out to be touched." Then he immediately regretted his choice of words, thinking of Jo and who he was talking to at that moment, and how it all might be taken so badly. He pulled his hand back, stuffed it in his pants' pocket, trying to look harmless, trying to look like he wasn't choking on his statement, walked as casually as he could past Jo's dad and into her house.

"You pawing after _everything_ that's mine?" Jack growled in his Harley voice, but quietly, someone starting a bike a few blocks away.

"Daddy, I don't belong to you." It sounded like an old argument the way Jo said it and she loped over and kissed Tim before he'd had a chance to get clear of Jack, making her point. "And it is good artwork he's admiring."

The growl softened. "Jo did it for me."

"She did mine too," came from the kitchen.

Ky, Tim figured, the owner of the second bike.

And Jack confirmed it. "Ky, come and say hi to the Marshal."

Another round of stereotyping was tossed out the door when Ky peered around the corner then clomped down the hallway. Jack's computer geek was young, sure, but any similarity to the Hollywood iconic nerd stopped there. No glasses, no hair except a chin curtain, neatly trimmed, easily a hundred pounds on Tim and all of it muscle, Ky was over six-feet tall, tattoos in two full sleeves and collar, leathers, jeans, boots. Tim wondered what was tattooed on Ky's knuckles – HARDER and FASTER, likely. He'd need an extra finger on each hand for it, and Tim caught himself counting when Ky held out a paw to shake, but there were only the usual five and no tattoos past the wrist.

"I hear you were a Ranger," said Ky. "Hooah."

"Actually, we don't say that much anymore."

"No?"

"No."

"Well, what do you say then?"

"Whatever the fuck we please," said Tim, then grinned for his joke and Ky grinned back.

"What happened to 'hooah'?"

"It got a little overdone."

"That's what I tell Jack about the Outlaw slogan – 'God forgives, Outlaws don't.'" Ky dropped a mitt on Jack's shoulder. "It's kinda old."

Brushing Ky's hand off, Jack said, "So's 'Don't fuck with me', but it still does the job."

"He's a bit touchy about it."

Jack cuffed Ky on the head, good-natured enough. "Take Marshal Tim here, kid, and get the fuck out of my face before I beat you stupid. Show him what you showed me."

"No problem. You got a computer I can use, Jo?"

" _Not…here."_ Jack spoke the words with a commanding bit of space between them, unsmiling.

Ky directed a shrug at Tim.

"I got Tor loaded on my computer," said Tim. "Let's do this at my place," and he led the way out, Ky clumping behind him.

"Why would you be using Tor, Marshal?" Ky spoke as his fingers clacked expertly and quickly over the keyboard, typing in a long URL from a piece of paper he pulled from his pocket.

"It's the safest platform for mucking around down there."

"Yeah, doesn't answer my question."

"Military and law enforcement." Tim pointed to himself, then at Ky. "You assholes hi-jacked the whole deep web from us. It was ours first."

"Yeah, but we've made it colorful."

"If you want to call child porn colorful."

"Okay, so there's some sick shit down here. Stay away from 'PD' links and 'CP' links and definitely stay clear of anything that has 'CANDY' in it and…"

"Thanks, I know."

Ky twisted in the chair to look at Tim. "What do you use it for though, really?"

"What do you use it for?"

The deep web was slow, even on Tim's high-speed connection, routing intricacy to provide anonymity. The page Ky was searching for popped up while they eyed each other. Tim answered when the site loaded, Ky distracted again.

"Maybe I got connections that want to remain anonymous."

"Contract killers?" Ky looked a bit excited about the prospect.

"Maybe just some Ranger buddies who know they have enemies in the world. It's nice to be able to talk freely."

"You have a Ranger forum or something? Can I get the URL?"

"No. Not unless you give me the Outlaws' info."

"Heh."

"Heh."

"How did you ever hook up with Jack's daughter?"

"She's next door."

"Convenience?"

"Hooking up with the daughter of an Outlaw when you're a US Marshal is hardly convenient."

"I suppose not." Ky tapped the screen. "I found this by accident. Look familiar?"

Tim leaned in, recognized the scene immediately. "You can't trace who posted that, can you?"

"I can't, but I've heard the Feds have done it, and some hackers to prove a point using end node grabs. Got any friends in the FBI, Marshal?"

* * *

Alone again in his house later, Tim leaned back in the old office chair that Ky had recently vacated, the one he used at his desk in the room that would be labeled 'dining area' on a real estate floor plan, but served him as an office and gaming room instead. A dining room table just wasn't on his 'useful things to own' list; missing also were good dishes, wine glasses, serving bowls, guest towels, and a welcome mat. There were comfortable chairs and a couch in the living room for watching television though, and plenty of beer in the fridge unless work got in the way of grocery runs. Everything was simple at his house, the way Tim preferred it, and anyone who might visit him likely preferred it that way too.

Blues was seeping through the adjoining walls from Jo's living room, loud enough to give a welcome backdrop for Tim's mood. Ky had left, the clacking of Tim's front screen on the frame followed by a repeat at Jo's, then voices next door. He had given Tim something to gnaw on, this dot onion site. Violence wasn't new to Tim, or to Ky or Jack or Isabelle, but this level of depravity tweaked something in each of them. Someone was playing truth or dare and the dare was murder and no one was choosing the truth except Tim and he was working under a heavy handicap in this game. He reached a hand over to the mouse and with a click backed out of the page he was on, one of the murder pictures that first caught Ky's attention, and back to the main forum page, then he picked his phone up off the desk and called Isabelle.

He provided her with all the information he had on the website that hosted the homeless homicide challenge. Isabelle promised to try and do something with the new trail, a very twisted trail without signs or a starting point or a destination, no clear footprints to follow, no nothing except that it was there. She had a whole squad of computer geeks working with her though, and no doubt at least one wrapped tightly around her finger, and they would scrape at the clues and maybe find something helpful. He hoped. Anyway, as she pointed out, it was more than they had yesterday.

When he heard the Harleys starting up, Tim stood and walked to the door and out and up to Jack sitting on his bike. He thanked him and Jack nodded.

"Jo tells me you hunt," he said.

The statement confused Tim – was Jack referring to this hunt, the one for the murderers, or hunting targets in Afghanistan, or hunting Heywood Humphrey on a warrant, or…? "It's my job. I hunt down fugitives, among other things."

"She said you _hunt_ hunt…game."

"Oh." Tim's reply was a mirthless grin acknowledging the truth. "I thought she didn't know. I thought she'd hate that so..."

"Her mother hated hunting, hated guns, hated bikes – both kinds. She hated men, hated tattoos, hated television, hated alcohol, hated blues, hated dirt, hated germs, hated gays, hated Chinese food and Indian food and anything that wasn't familiar, hated fucking damn near everything."

"So how'd you end up with her?"

"She was wild in bed."

Tim's grin was less mirthless this time, the eyebrows up and the eyes laughing. "One of those," he said.

"Yep."

Jack backed his bike out onto the street, nodded. Tim nodded back and watched them till they rounded the corner, then he turned and went inside. He shut down his computer and locked his door and walked over to the neighbor's house.

She waited until she had her clothes off, and he had most of his mind shut off except for thoughts about one thing, then she said, "You should take Daddy hunting. I think he'd like that. He gave it up as part of Mama's crazy demands so he could see me when I was little – visitation rights, you know – sold his rifles. How many do you have? Could he borrow one?"

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"What?"

"You want me and him to go hunting together? Loaded rifles? Seriously?"

"Marshal, you have some very big trust issues."

"It's part of my job to have very big trust issues."

"I wouldn't want your job then."

"Yeah, you'd probably suck at it. You'd probably trust your way into some serious trouble. And can't you call me something other than Marshal?"

"It's affectionate." She smiled and pulled him onto the bed. "You'd rather I call you 'baby'?"

"Marshal's fine," he mumbled, his lips on her neck.

From Jack's description, Tim concluded that Jo was very different from her mother – Jo loved her bike and her blues and her beer, and she ate anything, and she wore her tattoos and jeans proudly, and she apparently didn't object to hunting. But after a vigorous hour between the sheets with the lights on, he decided she was like her mother in one way, and he figured he might be the only one who knew about that particular similarity.

"What does Ky mean by 'onion'?"

"It just refers to layers of encryption, someone being clever with the name."

"Ogres have layers," she said.

"Marshals have layers too."

"I'm discovering that."

"I'm heading back down to Atlanta this weekend," he said, "look for Max again. You wanna come?"

"I can't." Her voice tickled his ear. "I have to finish that mosaic. They want to open the café before spring warms up and starts bringing people out on the sidewalk again."

The disappointment was a surprise. "Okay. Um, I'll try to be back early on Sunday."

"I'll be here."

* * *

"The vicious, fucking moron is using Windows and he still has JavaScript enabled and he hasn't updated his Tor browser. Does the idiot not read the fucking newspaper?"

Tim put a little distance between the phone and his ear, blinked away the text of the file he was scanning through, looking for a name connected with a name connected to Boyd Crowder, swiveled his chair so he was facing the window behind his desk, his back to the bullpen, before he replied, "What?"

"He's a complete computer fucking imbecile. He's left himself wide open – relatively speaking – for some FBI tracking. We already had him on the system from the Freedom Hosting bust."

Isabelle was back on her cigarettes again, a loud out-breath of smoke that Tim could smell all the way from Virginia to Kentucky. It was years past and he still couldn't walk by someone on a smoke-break outside the court house without the aroma of tobacco bringing pictures of her up in his head. Once you knew her, she stuck.

"Isabelle, what the fuck does all that mean?"

"That means I have an IP address for you. And stick to your guns."

"Hilarious pun. You have an IP address for _me?_ What about BSU? Won't they be interested in this now? I mean we've got a trail."

"Tim, we have a vague link. We need something incriminating in the guy's hand, and you know that. BSU isn't going to do anything more than add it to the thick fucking file that I gave them and deposit the lot back at the bottom of their pile. It's still not a priority for them to investigate. They might get to it in a year or so. And the nerd crime guys, well they're still sifting through what they got when they shut down that guy in Ireland, more interested in child porn than adults killing adults. But if you want me to pass it on…"

"Shit."

"I think it's up to us to go on that hunt."

"Where?"

"Detroit."

Rachel walked out of Art's office at that exact moment, phone pressed against her hip to block her voice as she called to the bullpen, "Who wants to make a trip to Detroit?" The look on her face and her tone advertised her thoughts about her request, resigned to the fact that it was unlikely she'd get a volunteer, and it was likely she'd end up having to order someone to go.

Tim swiveled around and shot his hand up in the air.

She looked at him, surprised. "Okay. Can you leave in the morning?"

He nodded.

"Thank you." She gestured at his phone. "Come in and see me when you're done."

He nodded again and swiveled back to the window and said to Isabelle, "Does anyone else know about this? Anyone but you?"

"Just me and my buddy in internet crime."

"Do you trust him?"

"Implicitly."

"Then let's go hunting," he said. "Get me an address."

"Sure thing."

"I love you."

"No you don't, and you never did. But it was fun."

"Yeah, it was fun."

Tim hung up and set his phone on the desk and it rang again as soon as it touched. The number was a Virginia area code so he answered.

"What now? You forget something?"

There was a pause. "…only how fucking rude you can be. Makes me wonder why I call you." It was a man's voice.

"Hey," said Tim, grinning, swiveling back to the window a third time. "What's up, asshole? Are the unicorns organizing in Virginia now?"

"I wish. I am so fucking bored, dude. I'm coming to visit. I'm hoping you got some more fun for me."

Ryan's timing was as brilliant as Rachel's, the pieces falling into place without any prompting. Tim stood up and peered between the slats of the blinds, looking for a blood sun or a blue moon or owls out in the daylight. "Buddy, I can promise you an interesting few days. How soon can you get here?"

"Wait up for me. And make sure you leave a light on and you got some fucking beer in the fridge."

"I always have beer in the fridge."

"That's why I chose to come see you and not my mother."

* * *


	29. Chapter 29

* * *

It was almost midnight. Ryan had arrived just after ten that evening and he and Tim and Jo had sat on her front step with a beer before she'd headed off to bed and then Tim had brought Ryan into his house to catch up on the news, drink a bit more.

"She's an interesting girl."

"Yep."

Ryan nodded, smiled. "So, I get your room?"

"Yep."

"Awesome. Not that your couch isn't comfortable, but…" He sat at Tim's kitchen table, completely at home. "Why don't you just move in with her?"

"She lives next door."

"Convenience."

"Uh, yeah. So I don't have to pack. I hate packing."

"You're such a commitment kinda guy. It's touching."

"You have to meet her dad, then maybe you'd understand why I don't just move in."

"I have to meet her dad? It's getting that fucking serious?"

"Your condition is getting serious."

A shared laugh.

"Where's my beer, dude? This one's empty."

"In the fridge. Help yourself," said Tim, and walked into the dining room.

He was two-finger typing the long URL that Ky had left for him when Ryan came up behind him and tapped him on the back of the head with something cold. Tim ignored him.

"Who loves you?" said Ryan, waving the beer now in front of Tim's face.

"You always did know the way to my heart, you fucking pain in the ass."

Tim reached for the bottle blindly, focused on his task at the computer, chased empty air until Ryan eventually gave up waiting for the hand and bottle to connect and set the beer down in front of Tim on the desk, then he pulled a chair over and sat down. The file of reports from Isabelle was sitting beside the keyboard and Tim slid it over in front of Ryan and pointed to it with his bottle. He sipped at his beer and watched while Ryan flipped through the pages. Tim was anticipating a strong reaction and Ryan didn't disappoint him.

"Fuck me," he said finally. "What the fuck is that? Is that...?"

"Fingers."

"Jesus. None of them is that guy you know, is it? That ex-SOG guy? Atlanta."

Tim shook his head, no.

"Then what're you doing this for?"

"These guys killed one of Max's friends…and Max is missing."

"You think…?" Ryan gestured at the file.

Tim shook his head again, shrugged. "I don't know." He tilted his head to the side, considering the question. The page he was waiting for loaded finally and he clicked on one of the forum threads and waited, then clicked on a link when the next page loaded. "I don't know," he said again. "There's been only two bodies in each city. Max would make three in Atlanta, so…unless he interrupted maybe…which I think he did. And if he did, well I'm honestly not too sure who would come out the loser in that scuffle."

Ryan's eyebrows shot up, disbelief. "The old drunk could take on this psycho? Seriously?"

"Max is a tough bastard."

"Shit, you're serious. You really think he might've pulled off some badass street justice?"

"Fuck, man, I don't know. I don't know what he's capable of anymore, but there's some interesting shit in his past."

"That was years ago."

"You don't know him."

"So what are you planning on doing?"

"I'm going to keep looking for Max, but first I'm going to talk to a guy in Detroit." He nodded at the screen. "Isabelle's pretty sure he's one of the two on this thread, posting these nice pictures for our entertainment." The next page had loaded, an artistic black and white photo of a body on the pavement, and Tim pointed at it. "I think there's two of them doing this and they're playing this game, back and forth. If I can get to one of them, maybe the other'll stop. That's the only plan I got, 'cause I don't think it's going to be possible to track them both down – not without a fucking shitload of luck, and I should know – I track people down for a living."

Ryan backtracked through Tim's answer. "Wait. Isabelle? That crazy intel Captain that you…?"

"Same one."

"How's she doing?"

"She's alright."

"You two still keep in touch? Fuck, I thought you were stupid getting involved with her then."

"Yep, you told me about a hundred fucking times. So shut the fuck up about it, already. Isabelle is…"

"Crazy."

"She's alright. I got time for her."

Ryan smirked.

"Fuck off."

Hands up surrendering, Ryan laughed. "I'm done."

"Until you're fucking not again."

"Detroit, huh?"

"Yeah, Detroit. I'm leaving tomorrow morning if you feel like joining me. You don't have to..."

Ryan stretched, yawned. "Better than the house repair list I've got waiting for me at my mom's. Count me in." He covered most of his face with his hands, everything but his eyes and mouth and did his best Christian Bale. "I'm Batman."

Tim turned back to his computer, backed out of the forum and shut down the Tor browser. "You're bat shit crazy."

"So are you gonna tell me what happened to your face?"

"Only if you drop your bad imitation of Batman, dipshit."

"I'm Batman."

A wry head tilt, an even wryer expression. "It was the unicorns, again. They're working for the Joker."

"Really? Man, that sucks. I liked unicorns. I thought they were all innocence and fucking farts that smell like flowers coming out of their asses."

* * *

Tim woke early with Jo, went next door and ousted Ryan out of his bed, then went back to Jo's for coffee. A Harley pulled around the corner as Tim walked out of his house, stopping him before he got to the bottom of his front steps. The bike slowed and climbed the curb onto Jo's walkway, and Ky lifted off his helmet and grinned a greeting from the seat, shut the engine down.

"What's up?" Tim took the last two steps slowly and walked over. "You giving Jo a ride to work?"

"No. I thought you might like some company."

"What?"

"I'm going to Detroit with you."

"What? No, you're not."

"Jack said, 'Go follow that stupid Marshal.'" Ky yawned and stretched. "So that's what I'm gonna do. Shit, I don't usually get up at this hour. Has Jo got any coffee?"

"You're not coming."

"I'll follow you on my bike if I have to 'cause Jack said so, and I don't argue with Jack – not when he's got his mind set. Insurance, he said."

Tim could think of a few reasons why Jack might wish to send Ky along and he didn't really like any of them. The lawman side of Tim figured Jack wanted to involve the Outlaws in this so that they'd have something on him, a Marshal, just in case, protecting himself and his gang, and protecting Jo too. Another possibility, remote, was that he wanted someone to keep an eye on his daughter's boyfriend, a lack of trust or perhaps an honest concern for Tim's well-being for Jo's sake. Or, maybe he just wanted to see that this thing got done in Outlaw fashion since they were already involved, some vigilante code of conduct – _God forgives. Outlaws don't._ "Insurance for what?" he said eventually, wondering if he'd get the truth.

"Insurance so you don't fuck up and let the guy get away."

It sounded like the truth; it was believable. "And how does sending you along ensure that?"

"Marshal, you want this guy, right? I can look at his computer in ways you wouldn't even think of."

"You make that sound erotic." But Tim had to admit, it made sense, no matter how much he didn't like it. What he and Ryan together knew about computers was just barely enough to put them comfortably into the twenty-first century. Ky could run nerd rings around them. Tim looked at his truck, the lack of legroom behind the front seats. "You'll have to fight Ryan for shotgun."

"Okay. Who's Ryan?"

"I'm kidding. You get the back."

"I plan on sleeping anyway."

"Alright, what the fuck." Tim threw his arms in the air, surrendering his life to the fates. "Come on. Jo's got coffee made."

Tim trudged back into the neighbor's, narrowed his eyes at her when she called out a greeting for Ky without looking up to see who it was first. She caught his look, smiled guiltily, handed Ky an empty mug and waved at the coffee maker then took Tim by the arm and led him back out the front door.

"It was Daddy's idea…"

"You told him my business."

"This is his business too. I mean it's definitely _not_ Marshal business so don't pull that bullshit. It's like the greater good, and all. Citizens of the world unite."

Tim wiped a hand across his mouth, angry.

"I know the difference," she said. "I know better than to discuss either of your businesses with the other. And I know how far I can trust my father, and it's farther than I can dream."

"Well, I'm not sure how far I can trust him, especially if things don't work out with us. How far can I trust him then?"

"Tim, you do right by me and it won't matter to him if we're together or not."

"Right by whose definition?"

"We've had this discussion. I think our definitions are pretty much painted equally."

Her statement brought to mind for Tim a picture again of that circle, that curving line that he couldn't ever figure if he were on the right side of. The complications of love and loyalty and court justice and human decency, what he could and couldn't live with, what he could and couldn't live without, and that line not only curved unexpectedly but blurred, and sometimes it disappeared completely. He dropped his head and let his anger go and shrugged, and she smiled and slipped her hands around his chest and pulled him close.

"I like that you got good people going with you."

"Ky is good people?"

She took a step back to see him better, a funny look on her face, both bemused and unambiguous. "I think Ky is my half-brother, but I haven't had it confirmed yet by Daddy, and I haven't asked. It's the way he treats him… Maybe he doesn't even know for sure."

"There are definitely similarities."

"Uh-huh." She shrugged. "It is what it is."

"You're like water, you know that?"

"I like the way you say that. It sounds like a compliment."

"It is."

"You thirsty?"

He grinned. "Lately, all the time." She closed the distance between them again, pressed up against him and kissed him.

"Jesus, didn't you two get enough last night?" Ryan was standing in his boxers in Tim's doorway. "When are we leaving anyway? Do I have time for a shower? I hope you got some coffee going, Jo, 'cause Tim's not much of a host." He nodded at the Harley. "Nice bike. Is that your bike? A girl with a bike – that's like sprinkles on your ice cream. I dunno, Jo, maybe you should be worried that he only likes you for your Harley."

Tim squeezed his eyes tight. "Fucking five hours in a truck with him today. It's penance for something. It's gotta be, right?"

* * *

The Marshals Office for the Eastern District of Michigan was located in downtown Detroit, only a few blocks from the waterfront and the Joe Louis Arena. Tim dropped Ky and Ryan at the corner and pointed in the direction of the Detroit River and told them to take a walk, get a tour of the sports arena maybe. They seemed to get along well, talked for the entire road trip discussing bikes and girls and Ranger training and girls and biker life and girls and private military contracting and mothers. They had the same taste in music, too.

"Hey, you know what's due south of us here?" Ky folded his arms and waited for one of them to answer, looking incongruously like a high school teacher.

"A bar?" Ryan was more like the kid at the back of the class.

"No. Canada. Weird, huh?"

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"Let's go check it out, wave at some Canadians."

The two men strolled off to see if maybe there was a bar on the way to the border and Tim circled the block and headed for the federal court house.

The Bureau Chief, Art's friend, Kirkland, was waiting with a local United States Attorney, an RCMP liaison, and a homicide investigator from the Windsor police to discuss the possible connection between the murder of a Canadian drug runner on their side of the border and Boyd Crowder's operation in Kentucky.

"How's Art doing?" Kirkland pointed Tim to a chair after the introductions were made.

"He's grumpy."

"Recovering then."

"The only way he knows how."

The Bureau Chief chuckled. "I'm coming down to see him next week."

"Bring back up."

"Is that what happened to your face?"

"Nah, I'm too fast for him. Especially now."

Kirkland pressed the point so Tim gave a hurried and entertaining version of the Lexington court house drama.

"Maybe I'll trade places with Rachel," said Kirkland after he'd heard the story. "Lexington is way more interesting than Detroit."

"That's why I volunteered to come up today."

"You heading back tonight?"

"That's the plan."

"Then we won't keep you."

Tim listened and took notes and signed off on some evidence to take back to Vasquez, satisfying the chain of custody procedures, and then he left as soon as he could to meet up again with Ky and Ryan. Ryan bounced a cryptic text to Tim through Chris Wilkie who was still in Virginia. The message wouldn't have made sense to anyone who hadn't shared the particular war experiences that Tim and Ryan had. It made Tim smile when he got it, and he got the hidden message too, the name of a bar between the court house and the Detroit River. Ryan and Ky managed to find a place with good beer due south of where he'd dropped them off. He walked into the establishment around dinner time and found them arguing.

"Batman is the shit. No superpowers and he still kicks ass."

"Sure, but c'mon… _billionaire._ He can fucking buy superpowers. He _does_ buy superpowers. The guy's got a butler for fuck's sake. He doesn't even have to bother wiping his ass. He pays someone to do that."

"Not the same. Superman has superhuman strength."

"It's close enough. Batman's got expensive technology…and a butler."

"You don't know shit."

"Did you get a head injury in combat?"

"Fuck you. I'll bet you don't even wear a helmet, biker boy. What's the point, right?"

Tim stood listening, just long enough to regret the fact that they were a few drinks up on him. "Hey."

"Dude," said Ryan, looking up, "You're just in time to settle an argument."

Ky clarified. "Batman or Superman? Which one is better?"

"That's been argued to death. It's so last century. Everyone knows that Master Chief is the shit. He kicks ass without demanding the limelight – quiet professionalism."

Ky and Ryan exchanged a look, camaraderie, a common enemy. Ryan spoke for them both. "That's just fucking stupid, dude. He's a gaming character."

Ky agreed. "And he's genetically enhanced. Doesn't count."

"No superpowers. And being military, and a Marine at that, I guarantee he doesn't get paid shit, so no billions – just plain fucking badass." Crossing his arms, Tim dared them to counter his points.

Ryan made a dismissive noise. "Like I said, that's just fucking stupid."

Tim shrugged. "Hey, you wanted my opinion. Now, order me a beer – I gotta pee. I've been sitting in a meeting with lawyers and Canadians. One gives me a hankering to shoot something and the other gives me a hankering for beer. You guys eat yet?"

* * *

 


	30. Chapter 30

* * *

It was never the plan – there was never a plan to begin with. A plan meant that you had a starting point and a destination, either on a map, something physical, or in your head, an idea to bring to daylight. All Tim had was an address and a possibility, no plan.

Their target pulled into his driveway just as Tim and Ryan were doing their second tour of the block and they moved with the situation, followed the guy inside, forcibly. Ky was sitting out of sight two blocks away, scrambled down the street when he saw them walk in, slipped inside the front door after them.

They made it up as they went along, zip-tied the guy to his office chair, stuffed a tea towel in his mouth to keep him from yelling, and searched the house. And found nothing.

Ky was two hours at the computer and getting frustrated. Ryan was working his way through each room, surprisingly meticulous and thorough. Tim hunted around the study, files, drawers, keeping an eye on their suspect, listening to Ky's increasingly innovative swearing.

Tim found a gun. It was a revolver. He unloaded it and checked the action, dry firing it then reloading it, so deftly that the haughty expression on the owner's face changed noticeably, formed something a little less certain. Satisfied that the gun was in good working order, Tim set it down beside the keyboard where Ky was working and leaned back against the edge of the desk, facing his captive. The man defied another of Tim's stereotypes. He was middle class, middle age, gray at the temples, nice suit, nice house, nice teeth, nice tie, nice shoes, decent car, decent stereo, decently stocked liquor cabinet, and in decent shape. After studying him for a few minutes, Tim reached over and tugged on the rag, freeing up the man's mouth so they could have a conversation.

"I've got money in my safe," he said as soon as he could speak, panting, parched, but not afraid.

Tim tilted his head. "That's nice. I got guns in mine."

"I've got contacts who'll make sure you're found if you do anything stupid – police, a judge, a district attorney. This won't just go away. Walk away now and you can have whatever you want from my safe."

"I want fingers, at least forty-eight, maybe more," said Tim, held up a gloved hand and wiggled his digits, demonstrating, and watched. He was satisfied to see the man's expression change again, from aggressive back to haughty, but curious too.

"Try _more,"_ he said, "lots more."

He couldn't hide a faint sneer, and Tim nodded slowly at the response. They were definitely in the right house.

"So you're a motivational speaker. I know that because of your business card. You got a whole box of them in your desk drawer." Tim held one up twitching it back to front in his hand, reading from it. "Christian W. Rule, Motivational Speaker, corporate appearances, convention speaker, yada, yada. Nice name. Interesting irony there. Did you change it at some point or is that the name your parents gave you – Christian Rule? I bet they were disappointed the way you turned out."

"That's the name I was born with – Rule. I make the rules."

"Hey, nice slogan. It's like a marketing jingle. You come up with that all by yourself? And, what's the 'W' stand for – Wanker?"

"What do you want? Just get to it. It's the easiest path to success."

"I'm not part of your audience, Wanker, so shut the fuck up unless you're answering a question. You work a lot of conventions then? Do a bit of traveling?"

A cautious nod. "Obviously."

"Houston, Miami, Orlando, Chicago, New York, Atlanta recently, maybe?"

"I speak all over the country."

"Yeah, I know. You left quite a trail for us."

"I have a lot of money in that safe."

"Why do you cut their fingers off?"

In the pause after his question, Tim realized that Ky had stopped typing to listen. Christian Rule lifted his chin, enjoying having an audience of any kind, and answered.

"Because those people, they've always got their hands out, wanting freebies. It makes me sick."

"Oh, I get it. That's symbolism." Tim raised both eyebrows, wet his lips. "You make me sick." He tapped Ky's shoulder with a clenched fist. "Got anything?"

"Nothing. There's nothing here."

Their host wiggled a bit, trying to sit up straighter, proud. "You won't find anything. I'm too careful for that."

"Uh-huh – so careful that _we_ found you." Tim turned and looked down at the computer, said to Ky, "Is that a left-handed mouse?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Then our host is left-handed. Makes it easy. Shut it down. We're done."

The phone was on the left too, and a coaster for a hot mug or a sweating glass, and a pair of reading glasses. There were no personal photos anywhere and Tim thought that odd. He wasn't sure what it meant, honestly didn't care either and didn't dwell on it. He pulled a knife out of his pocket and thumbed it open, reached over and cut the tie on his captive's left arm, freeing it from the chair. Christian tried to grab him, but Tim was already out of reach, pocketing his knife again. He took hold of the flaying arm tightly, twisted it to stop it moving, picked up the gun and set it snuggly in the man's palm, wrestled the arm up and angled the muzzle under Christian's chin and helped him pull the trigger.

The sound was unexpectedly loud in the room.

Ky whipped around in his chair. "Fuck! Fuck, warn me next time."

Tim let the man's arm and the gun drop from where he held them. "I don't think there's going to be a next time."

Ryan was in the basement when Tim reached his decision and hastily arranged the involuntary suicide. Sprinting the stairs, Ryan came up quickly when he heard the gunshot, his own weapon out, poked his head around the corner of the office, took in the situation. "Was this the plan?" He looked at Tim.

"There was no plan."

"That's what I thought. Dude, did you think this thing through? Now you can't invite him to your wedding."

Ky stood up and let a long and noisy breath out, walked over and cut the tie on the man's other arm, then his legs, pocketed the plastic and the rag. "You and Jo are getting married? You haven't been together very long." The body sagged a little more. "Stupid fucker. You don't poke at a guy with a gun, especially if he knows how to use it. What say I type a nice little suicide note?"

Tim replied with a bare nod.

Ryan stepped into the room and around next to Tim for a closer look. "Well, you've made my discovery a bit redundant, but check this out." He tossed a stack of eight by eleven photos onto the desk behind him and they scattered artistically across the surface, black and whites, at least two dozen, a body in each one. "There's a developing room downstairs, sort of hidden. Lots of negatives. Fake wall. I seriously thought everyone had switched to digital by now."

Tim looked up finally, away from the body, over to Ryan, then the photos. He recognized Max's friend, Phil, in the top one. "Not redundant – confirmation. Thanks."

Ky finished typing and left the screen open on a two line note in a Word document. "Someone better check it over. My grammar and spelling suck."

Ryan read it through. "Looks good to me. Simple. Touching. The remorse is heartfelt." He nudged Tim. "Well, buddy, I think it's time," he said. "Let's porkchop."

"Yep."

Ky frowned. "Porkchop?"

"Oscar Mike, dude."

"What?"

"Move," said Ryan, a little more urgently, nodding at the front door.

"Oh. Good idea."

They walked carefully, avoiding the blood spattered on the floor behind the body, then out the door and down the street, and they drove the speed limit out of Detroit and on south through Michigan and Ohio, and across the Kentucky State line and back to Lexington.

Ky left after a beer; Ryan fell asleep on the couch after a second one; Tim sat in one of his armchairs and put his head back and closed his eyes. He heard his door open a few seconds later, a key in the lock, light footsteps. He flinched when her fingers ran through his hair.

"Tim, aren't you coming to bed?"

"I didn't want to wake you."

"Well, why not? I wanted you to. Come on – we've got an hour before I have to be up."

He stood and followed her, feeling out of step and tense until he lay down beside her. He was asleep before he could appreciate it.

* * *

"Why, thank you, Deputy Gutterson."

Vasquez grinned when he took the evidence box, his expression suggesting that he knew something, a shared conspiracy that left him one up on Tim. But Tim was familiar with the look by now, a couple of years seeing it every time he had to deal with the man, so he didn't let it bother him. He returned the grin with one of his own favorite fakes, the one that wrinkled his face from his chin all the way up to his hairline.

The AUSA's smile widened in turn and a chuckle came out. "Acting Chief Brooks tells me you _volunteered_ to go to Detroit. What the hell would make you do that?"

"Sometimes it's the only way to get things done," said Tim. "Your counterpart there says hi, by the way."

"Farley? What an idiot."

"Bouchard says hi, too. I don't think the Windsor detective knows you though 'cause he didn't send a greeting. I love that Canadian accent."

"Which one?"

"The French one. The rest of them just sound like they're from Michigan."

"Then you've never been to the east coast there."

"I've never been to the east coast north of Georgia."

"The lobster's good."

Tim shrugged. "I prefer beef."

"I figured that about you. Nice face, by the way. Who does your make-up?"

"Want me to introduce you?"

"Not really."

"If you change your mind…"

"I'll let you know."

Back at his desk later that morning, Tim dug into a box of files to help with the case occupying the Marshals Office. Nothing had changed except the day – it was Friday now. Ryan was on the road to his mother's place in Indiana, Jo was finishing a job, Tim was at his desk. He hoped to get away as close to five as possible, head down to Atlanta and try again to hunt down his friend, Max, another weekend of pavement and grime. The resignation was already settling in, that he would likely never find him. He wondered at what point he would stop looking.

Rachel walked out of the conference room, talking to Raylan over one shoulder while she crossed the bullpen. She turned finally to look at Tim and stopped in front of his desk. "Hey, how's the nose?"

"I can breathe just fine, thanks. How does it look from your angle?"

"Better. Thanks for going to Detroit."

"Not a problem. There's always something exciting to do there. Too bad though it isn't baseball season."

"Exciting for me is dinner and a show and I can do that right here. When did you get back? You look tired."

"Not too late. It's the bruising, makes me all puffy. I need a raw steak and a proper weekend."

Rachel was distracted, didn't make a joke in return. "Did you see Kirkland?"

Tim nodded.

"How's he doing?"

"Coming down to visit Art next week, he said."

"Oh, God, I hope he doesn't decide to stop in here. I don't need that."

"Rachel, you could run Detroit, no problem. Probably better than Kirkland."

"No thanks." She smiled sincerely for the compliment. "Join me for lunch," she said and walked into her office to get her jacket.

He made note of the fact that it wasn't a request.

They sat comfortably across from each other at Art's favorite diner, talking about her nephew, Nick, and the Boyd Crowder case and Detroit's bankruptcy troubles. She got to the point after they'd finished eating.

"Nelson was disappointed you were gone yesterday. He wanted to tell you he qualified sharpshooter this month." She looked as pleased as Nelson likely was. "He's a different Marshal this week. The change is remarkable. Art was right – he just needed some confidence."

"Nelson's alright."

"Yes, he is." She pushed her plate over, clasped her hands tightly and set them on the table, took a breath in and let it out. "Raylan will be leaving as soon as we wrap up the Crowder case, one way or the other."

"He'll be leaving one way or the other, or we'll be wrapping up the Crowder case one way or the other?"

"Don't. You sound scarily prophetic. Are you trying to make me more nervous?"

"Sorry, I was trying to be funny."

"It wasn't funny."

Tim frowned, narrowed his eyes at her. "You're worried."

"It's now my job to be worried. So, yes, I'm worried. Anyway, I was hoping to convince you to withdraw your transfer request, at least for a while, maybe a year? I need some stability, some continuity. When Art comes back…"

" _If_ Art comes back…"

"If Art comes back," she conceded the point, "he won't be able to take on as much, so I'll be busy still with administrative…"

"I'll stay. Just rip up the request."

Rachel blinked, surprised that he was so easily convinced, then she smiled slyly. "Do you have some incentive to stay now maybe?"

"Let's just say the incentives to leave are diminishing."

Tim wouldn't give her the satisfaction of confirming that Jo might be a pull to stick around Lexington for a while. Rachel looked satisfied and smug anyway.

"Fuck off," he said, good-natured.

She laughed, loose and relieved.

His phone rang as they walked the steps up to the front of the court house. Tim recognized the area code and waved Rachel on. "I gotta take this," he said, turned and walked back down to the sidewalk. "Hey, Issy," he said, tense. "How's Virginia?"

"Same. Do you read the news much?"

"Every day."

"Just the local stuff or…?"

Tim stopped walking. "Why?"

"Just curious. It's a good day today, Gutterson."

Tim relaxed. "If you say so."

"I say so."

The local Detroit news reported the death, not making much of it, burying the story beneath the violence in Syria, tension in the Gaza strip, economic recovery, employment statistics, debt forgiveness, a drug bust, and then, finally, the suicide of a man being investigated by the FBI for involvement in illegal activities tied to the take down of a large deep web hosting service in Ireland. The reporter hinted at child pornography. An FBI spokesperson confirmed only that he was a low-priority suspect and likely was tipped off that his arrest was pending. Tim read the report through twice, not believing a word of it, then got back to work.

* * *

 


	31. Chapter 31

* * *

Max was standing in Tim's bedroom doorway, fingerless hand bleeding, gun in the other, tapping it on the door frame, mouth opening and closing around bloody fingers, and Jo was out of bed and walking toward Max and Max lifted the gun…and Tim jerked awake, brain buzzing, rubbed away the ghost and the troubled thoughts with it, peered through the windshield of his truck into the dark broken only by the dim lights of the Tennessee rest stop he had pulled into some hours ago, somewhere between Knoxville and Chattanooga.

There was a knocking again and he turned and blinked into a flashlight beam. Another knock, this time with the flashlight pointed down and Tim could make out the outline of a State Trooper's hat and a man wearing it, hand on his holster, backing away from the door and calling to him to step out of his truck. Tim did as told and swung his legs out, hands in view, smiled and squinted into the harsh flashlight beam up in his face again.

"Hey, buddy, no problem here. I was tired, long few days, took a nap – a long one. I'm a US Marshal." He dropped his hands a little bit. "Can I get my ID?"

"Slowly."

The trooper relaxed after a good scrutiny of Tim's Marshal's badge, handed it back, arms loose and flashlight pointing at the pavement between them. They exchanged stories about keeping awake on a long shift, a long day in a car, shared an anecdote or two about sleeping when they shouldn't.

"Sorry to wake you," the trooper said in a pause, "but you can't overnight in these rest stops. I had to check."

"It's not a problem. I needed the wake up call. It was only supposed to be a quick nap. What time is it, anyway?"

The trooper peered at his watch in the flashlight's beam. "Just past midnight."

"Shit, I better get going. I was hoping to be in Atlanta by now."

"Don't be in a hurry."

Tim chuckled. "You going to follow me and pull me over for speeding?"

"Only if I'm bored. Go fast enough and you'll make it out of my area before I get to it."

"Who's on the next stretch? I'll be sure to tell him it was your idea to go fast if he pulls me over."

"She. Marguerite. She'll give you a ticket for sure if you mention my name."

"Speed limit it is then."

"I dunno. She's awful cute. You might want to meet her."

"Got a woman in my life, thanks."

"Speed limit then."

"Yep."

They shook hands and parted and Tim pulled back onto the I-75 southbound and had no trouble staying awake, passing the Atlanta city limits two hours later.

* * *

He found his friend in the dead hours Sunday night, tucked away in a spot that Max took him to once early on in their relationship, back when he was introducing Tim to the rigors of street living. Under a railway bridge, a place where litter collected and grime sat untouched, it was a dirty hole, one Max said he used only when he was worried someone was out to get him and he needed some sleep.

The smell of decay stopped Tim a yard or two back from the concrete truss that provided protection, concealment. He brought up a hand and rubbed his eyes. Foot weary long since, stopping only for meals since he had arrived in Atlanta at two o'clock Saturday morning, he'd ignored the fatigue until this moment, until the pending discovery of something bad brought it up to the surface, whittled at his resolve. He crouched on the lonely patch of sidewalk to put a different bend in his body, stretched the ache out his calves and lower back. Spitting out the remains of the dip tucked in his cheek, he reached inside his jacket for the Jameson he'd bought to share with his buddy when he found him, if he found him, and unscrewed the lid and took a good mouthful. He held it in his mouth briefly, swishing it to rinse out the taste of the spent tobacco, spit it out and took another drink, then he stood up and walked to the barrier and slipped behind it.

There was a boot sticking out from a tattered blanket, a body lying hidden. Tim stared at the boot trying to understand what he was looking at. It wasn't the style he'd bought Max recently, didn't look anything like anything either of them would wear, impractical, for show. Toward the back of the enclosure the concrete ran on a slope up to a chain-link fence that kept people from walking the tracks, improbably dense with filthy-green weeds and scraggy grasses. There was little light from the street that could work itself into the space but Tim knew what he was looking for, consequently recognized what he was looking at. The camouflage netting was spread out among the weeds and there was a hard round shape peeking out at one end, another boot, a more Max-like boot.

"Max?" Tim kept his distance, hand on his weapon, called out quietly, hopeful. "Max, it's me, Tim."

The netting shifted. "Tim?"

"Jesus, you fucking asshole. Where the fuck have you been?" Tim reached down then and gingerly lifted the end of the blanket at his feet, opposite end from the boot. It was a man, and he was well and truly dead, his head no longer attached to the rest of him. "Max, buddy…what did you do?"

"I got one of them! He was coming to get me – I saw him kill Marley. He cut off parts, just like they did to Phil. But I played him. He thought it was gonna be easy taking me, so I showed him how I can dance with that knife you got me. He didn't see it coming." He flipped off the netting and slid down the embankment, kicked the body. "I've been questioning him, trying to get information about the others, but he was a tough bastard, I'll give him that. I had enough, decided to set him up as a warning to the other gooks, but I needed some sleep first and a plan. Shit, he's starting to smell."

"I don't know how you can tell."

Max grinned. "It's good to see you, Tim. I've been alone out here too long. 'Bout time they sent some support." He planted his hands on his hips, joined Tim staring at the body. "You bring anything to drink?" he said.

Tim passed Max the bottle of whiskey then leaned against the concrete truss and tried to think. What to do? The man dead and desecrated at his feet was a piece of shit, working out his dark dreams on the helpless and hopeless. Too bad for him he picked on the one guy not so helpless – the fucker deserved what he got – but Tim didn't think he had enough evidence for the kind of certainty a court of law would require to find him guilty of any murders, nothing sufficient for a judge and jury, not when you put this man, expensively dressed, and Max, the resident of crazy town, side by side. And even if he did have evidence, what would happen to Max? The rest of his life in a mental health facility likely – hacking off someone's head was not a good move if you were arguing self-defense.

"Shit."

"I sure showed him."

"Yeah, Max, you sure did."

"You want to help me set a trap for another one?"

A car drove past and Tim drew a little more into the shadows. His mind was already made up, his morals just needed to come around, and they did, quickly.

"Max, listen carefully. This guy, he was working solo. So now we need to get rid of his body so we don't make a martyr of him, encourage a following with the other locals, got it?"

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely." Tim didn't like lying to a friend – it wasn't his style – but he told himself it was dialogue from crazy town, make-believe, joining in on a level with Max's conversation. "Intelligence has been onto this guy, tracking him. I talked to them and they showed me everything they had. It was just him. Do you trust me?"

"Sure, I trust you."

"Alright." Tim closed his eyes, thinking. "Stay here, stay out of sight, stay quiet. Guard the body. I'll go get what we need to hide it."

* * *

Tim drove with the windows down to help keep him awake and to keep the fresh air flowing to chase out Max's particular aroma. Max was asleep in the passenger seat wrapped in his coat; the body was in the bed in the back, wrapped in a tarp and topped with all of Max's possessions. The smells, decay and street-living odor, fought for supremacy and camouflaged each other well enough that with luck no one was going to dig closely. Tim had a story ready in case he was pulled over. "This is the third time this year I've had to help track down my friend's uncle and drag him back to Tallahassee. He's not been the same since Vietnam. You know what it's like." And if they were already past Tallahassee then he'd say "Port St. Joe". Simple – and hopefully the smell and the crazy town passenger were evidence enough to back up his lie and prevent any closer inspection of the vehicle contents.

Sopchoppy, Florida, was their real destination. Tim had explored the area once with a couple of friends just because of the name, Sopchoppy. They couldn't resist seeing it. It wasn't too far from Camp Rudder where he'd completed his Ranger school, the grand finale before the tab ceremony, a charming trek through a swampy creek, and so the terrain in this part of the state was familiar. Sopchoppy itself wasn't much of anything, a town tucked in amongst the swamps and forests and rivers. Tim and his friends had chased around in a good off-road vehicle and crashed through some of the less civilized tracks that led off the main road into the Ochlockonee River State park looking for alligators. They never did find one – alligator sighting isn't the best in November – but at least the mosquitoes weren't a problem then. They had fun anyway, the alcohol and laughter making up for the disappointing reptile hunt. He remembered dozens of wet and remote places from that trip, perfect for hiding a body to help a friend. Thankfully he still had a decent off-road vehicle. It was as good a plan as he could come up with, dog tired, staring at Max's mess earlier that night.

They pulled off the main road around noon on a track that had no signs of regular use, bumped their way along until Tim spotted brackish water past the trees and brush. They dumped the body and Max's belongings, weighing them down before doing a comical heave-ho into the swamp, then they backed out and drove back to Tallahassee.

Tim rented a room in a motel on the outskirts of the city, paying cash, and ordered Max into the shower while he went to buy them some clean clothes and some food, then he bagged his and Max's old clothes and threw them in a dumpster down the block, ate and had a nap. They were back in the truck again two hours later and speeding north.

The first thing Tim did when they arrived back in Atlanta was rent another hotel room and call the local homicide detective. A half truth was an excellent alibi and Detective Firth was curious to hear Max's story and Tim was anxious to have it told.

"I gotta go out today and replace all his stuff. It's gone. He's lost everything." Adding a wry grin for the explanation, Tim shrugged at the detective and patted a clean and smiling Max on the shoulder, not an act, happy to have his friend back. "I can't believe I found him. From what I can get from him that makes any sense, I think he witnessed that last murder, ran, left everything, which tells you just how scared he was. He'd fight for that sleeping bag normally."

Detective James Firth looked bemused, notepad out hoping for a lead, but Max was meandering main street crazy town, repeating over and over how he butchered his enemy with his bare hands, blending real life accounts past and present, jungle and concrete, insane feats and Greek drama heroics. Tim let him rant, his descriptions intense and wild and completely unbelievable and littered with the truth. The detective clearly didn't buy a word of it.

"He thinks he's back in Vietnam," Tim said, "hunting gooks."

Firth closed his notebook and put it away and asked Tim to walk him out.

"What are you going to do about your friend, Max?"

"Do like always. I'll buy him a sleeping bag and a knapsack and some supplies…" Tim looked straight at the detective. "I've tried to get him a permanent place. He won't have it. This is who Max is."

"You're not worried about this serial killer?"

"He seems to have a pattern of two murders in each city." Tim wet his lips and looked away. "He's done…with Atlanta. I'll keep hounding the Feds, see if they're following up."

They shook hands, promised to keep each other informed, parted.

* * *

Tim thought about Jo on the drive home to Lexington. He thought about her when he took his truck into a car wash, cleaning it inside and out. He was thinking about her when he stopped to have a shower at a motel, the smell of Max, the smell of swamp, the smell of violence and death swirling in the steaming water and running down the drain with the crazy and the ugly. He was thinking of her when he stopped for a meal, timing the trip to arrive back late Tuesday when she was home from work. He was thinking of her when he unloaded his truck into his front hall, dumping the contents and leaving them where they lay, and locking his door and using her key and walking straight into her house, catching her fresh from her after-work shower, jeans and a strappy top, hair wet and tousled, and his desire at that point was so aggressive that he pulled her out of the kitchen and up the stairs. The sex might have been violent, crazy and ugly like the weekend past, but she wouldn't allow it, dancing, deflecting. She turned undressing into an art when she slipped his shirt off and gracefully unveiled her skin too, sliding out of her jeans and tracing the lines of his tattoos and slowing him down with gentle but commanding touches. In the end he realized that this was what he wanted all along, and she had chiseled away the baggage, inspired, creative, and left only the essence of him intact, sculpting the moment into something beautiful. In the end he realized that this was what he would do every night if he could. In the end he realized he wanted her, not just sex, not just anyone, her.

"I love you," he said, sinking into skin, into her, after.

Her eyes narrowed. "What did you do?" she said, and shook her head and smiled and kissed his forehead.

"Nothing I wouldn't do again."

She seemed to consider that, ran a finger around his face. "And what did I do to deserve this confession?"

"Nothing I wouldn't be happy if you'd do again."

"Alright then," and she smiled, "I love you too, Tim. Are you sleeping here tonight?"

"Yep."

"I've got some fried chicken in the fridge and a frozen pie thing," and she laughed softly, aloud, remembering, "but I'm fresh outta beer."

"I got some in the fridge I can get."

"Better put some pants on first."

* * *

 


	32. Chapter 32

* * *

"Where the hell have you been the last two days?" Raylan had a hand on his hip, lanky legs spread slightly, angry. "I'm trying to imagine what you could possibly have been up to that would keep you, the always dependable Tim Gutterson, from his desk and his gun. Did the President call?"

Tim stopped an inch from Raylan, cocked his head and said, "I was helping a friend bury the body."

The face under the Stetson scoffed. "I find your snark a whole lot less amusing when it's interfering with my getting Boyd Crowder once and for all."

"Raylan, you are not a special snowflake," said Tim in a tone with no flavor, then he stepped around and past the obstacle between him and his chair.

Raylan had stopped Tim just inside the doors to the Marshals office, arm out like a gate on a level crossing. Tim looked, but couldn't see any express train worth stopping for. There was just Raylan, and him, late in this Wednesday morning, two days late in fact, dragging with him that thin feeling that you only get from a severe lack of sleep, wondering if he could ever hope to make up the deficit in his lifetime. Tim could count on his fingers, and not run out, the hours of sleep he'd had between last Thursday and this past Tuesday evening when he'd crawled back into bed with Jo after dinner and a beer. She'd kept him awake longer than he'd planned, not that he'd minded, and he'd slept like the dead afterward, until this morning at seven, waking up to an empty spot in the bed that she'd vacated earlier, off to her job, and blessed coffee in the pot. The rough edges and jitters and the rancid taste in his mouth and his stomach and behind his eyes were bad enough that he knew this wasn't a morning to be having any conversation with Raylan, even a snarky one. Tim was worried that in his present condition he might do something he'd regret. Walking away seemed wise. So that's what he did.

Rachel had been watching the exchange, caught his eye and called him to her office with a look. Even Art couldn't do that.

Tim blinked, threw a doleful glance over at his desk, then obeyed the summons.

"Sorry," he said as soon as he cleared the door.

"I tried to call. I even tried to track you. Thank God you left a message Monday night or we might have filed a missing persons."

Tim held up his phone. "It got dropped in a toilet. I pulled it apart to try and dry it out." That was all true; he just neglected to mention that he'd done it on purpose before he'd left for Florida with Max. "I think I'm going to need a new one."

"Where were you, Tim?"

"I went back to Atlanta after work on Friday, spent the weekend looking for Max. I found him late, uh...Monday, talked to the homicide detective there, then stayed to clean Max up and get him settled down. I needed to buy him some gear before I could feel right about leaving him." Tim wet his lips, hoped she wouldn't think too hard about the timeline inconsistencies.

"So he's alright?"

"Well, that's a matter of opinion, but I think he's alright – same as always, anyway." Tim wrestled with something that might have been guilt, but was more like wishing he was able to be two places at once. "Everything okay here?"

She nodded. "It's been hectic. Vasquez is in a mood about the Crowder case, and he and Raylan have been butting heads. And we had two sightings in the area of fugitives on the district top fifteen."

"Sorry," he repeated.

"Mm-hm. This isn't like you."

"Max isn't a charity case – he's my friend and he needed my help."

"You've never missed a day, Tim, not one in the time I've worked with you."

"And it doesn't seem likely I'll miss another one. I don't see this happening too often. I'm convinced he witnessed that last murder, ran scared, been hiding out. I couldn't _not_ do something."

The nod was understanding, Rachel putting the pieces together and forming a picture of the circumstances, setting herself in Tim's shoes. "I'll put it in as a requested holiday. Maybe I just lost the paperwork? Call sooner next time. You know land lines still exist."

"Yes, Ma'am. That's why I did use one…eventually."

Rachel snorted. "Eventually." She shuffled some papers on her desk and Tim thought about Art. She pulled one from the piles and handed it over. "I need a prisoner escort from Big Sandy, trial appearance."

"Is this punishment?"

"If it makes you feel better to think of it that way. Take Nelson. He's been itching to talk to you. He offered to go look for you yesterday."

Tim grinned finally, "Aw."

"And please, let him drive. You look like you've been drinking for three days straight."

"I've hardly had a drop, only a mouthful of whiskey with Max when I found him, to celebrate." Tim pulled the almost empty tin of Copenhagen out of his pocket, wiggled it. "But this stuff, it comes in bourbon flavor. How efficient is that?"

Rachel squinted to see what he was holding, made a face when it registered. "Boys are gross," she said, waved him out with a huff.

Raylan intercepted Tim again when he crossed the bullpen to get Nelson. Tim wouldn't stop for him. "Talk to the boss," he said, thumbing back at Rachel's office, walking on to a desk across the room. "Nelson, dude, congrats. I hear you got sharpshooter." He held out a fist to punch and Nelson mirrored the motion. "Rachel's so happy about it that she's offered us a prisoner transport today."

"Seriously?"

"No." Tim was amused by Nelson's confusion, chuckled. "I think she's mad at me. Sorry to drag you into it."

"I don't mind." Nelson stood and collected his things. "I don't get what the big deal is about prisoner transport. I don't hate it. It's part of the job."

"Dude, don't say that out loud. Everyone'll be pawning it off on you. That's all you'll end up doing."

"Really, I don't mind."

"Seriously, free advice – shut up. You don't want anyone hearing you say that, especially not me."

* * *

Tim took the bicycle from Nelson, leaned it against his truck and eyed it. It was not like any bike Tim had ever seen before. It looked odd, sleek, artsy – artsy was the best word he could come up with to describe it – artsy and orange, bright orange. "You picked this up for me?"

"Yeah. You said your girlfriend needed one. I was there anyway. Me and my brother always go to the auctions. I got this for a hundred and sixty-five dollars and apparently that's really cheap. There was another guy bidding on it or it might've been cheaper. I hope it's not too expensive, but my brother, John, says it's a good bike, worth it. He knows his stuff because he's into biking and he got excited when he saw it, said to get it, and you didn't show up on the weekend, so…" Nelson looked between Tim and the bicycle. "I think people weren't bidding on it because of the color _and_ it was the end of the day. He said to take it into a shop for a good cleaning and tuning. It's a Shinola. He says it's pretty high end, made in Detroit."

Tim pulled out his wallet and counted out the cash and handed it to Nelson along with a grin. "Thanks. I mean it. I can tell you right now she's going to love it. It's exactly her thing. The one she wants is like a couple grand or something and she was only just starting to save up for it."

"I think this one's worth that much new. It's a Shinola, like I said."

"I don't have a fucking clue what that is."

The expression Nelson made then was apologetic, a confession. "Me neither, but John said it was a steal at that price, and the auctioneer did too."

"Dude, seriously, I really appreciate you doing this."

A smile replaced the embarrassment. "I wanted to do something for you, for your time, you know? A thanks for the help at the range."

Tim slapped Nelson on the back, lifted the bike and set it carefully into the cab of his truck, still grinning. "I'd buy you a beer but it's already late, and I'm fucking tired. I'm planning on eating dinner in bed tonight in case I fall asleep in the middle of it. Tomorrow be okay?"

"Tomorrow, yeah, sure, that'd be great."

"Alright, buddy, we'll see you then."

"Okay, 'night."

Monday's craziness had spilled over into Tuesday for the Marshals, and Nelson and Tim had arrived back from the prisoner transport to an office in full sprint, had been dragged into the madness with the rest and, like everyone else, had left later than usual. It was well past any civilized dinner hour when Nelson had pulled Tim down to his SUV and presented the bike to him. When Tim drove away with his prize, he could see Nelson in his rearview mirror, standing in the parking lot watching him leave, a contented expression on his face, the world for him in balance. Tim was contented as well – he felt like he'd won the lottery.

Jo was sitting on her steps in his favorite strappy top and he grinned at her as he pulled up, and she bounced off her perch and loped over, smiling for him.

"Are you ever at home?" she said, pushing her lips down into a fake frown.

"Don't start a fight," he said, churlish, remembering another girl. "I am too fucking tired for it."

She looked surprised at his reaction, stepped back, hands up. "I'm not angry – no fight here – I'm just disappointed. There's a huge difference, Marshal. Disappointed – that's a good feeling to have when you don't get to see someone. You wouldn't want me to be indifferent now, would you? Or happy you're not around?"

"I suppose not."

"I hope you're disappointed when I'm not around. Doesn't mean your life stops, just…" She waved her hands, shrugged.

"Glad to have that explained," he said, feeling stupid, letting his guard down.

"Kiss me," she said and leaned up against him.

So he did, and she responded with enthusiasm, tugging him tightly in.

"I got something for you," he said when she let him go.

"Does it have chocolate in it?"

"Nope. I suppose you could get chocolate _on_ it."

She squealed when he pulled the bike out of his truck – surprise and a bit of awestruck recognition. She actually jumped for joy, and until then, Tim had thought it just a silly expression.

"Holy shit, that's a Shinola!" Her mouth stayed open at the end of the exclamation.

"Glad you know what it is. I didn't have a clue when Nelson told me."

"Holy shit. I love it. How did you…?"

She took possession of it quickly, snatching it from his hands. She adjusted the seat, checked the tires and threw a leg across the bar and pedaled expertly off down the road singing loudly something Tim didn't recognize, but it made him laugh.

" _We're on two wheels, baby,  
We're on two wheels, baby"_

She circled around at the corner and came back, whipping past him and around his truck agilely, and down the other way and back again, sitting up straight with both hands off the bike, out free. She was lit up and alive and rapping a different song on this pass.

" _I'm on a motherfucking bike,_  
no greenhouse gas,  
a tiny carbon footprint up your ass,  
I'm on a motherfucking bike"

"Are you on something?" he said, chuckling and swiping at her when she passed close by again.

"I'm on a bike, baby. I've got a bike." She whooped happily, leaned forward and gripped the handle bars and sped up, disappearing this time around the block.

Tim stood a minute, smiling, watching the spot where he'd seen her last, then went inside and opened himself a beer. Jo had food prepared, though there was evidence she'd already eaten. He helped himself and took his plate and his beer back out to the step and waited for her to turn up again. She reappeared five minutes later, rounded the corner and gracefully hopped off the bike before it had rolled to a stop.

"It's gorgeous," she said, "and light and so easy to maneuver. And I _love_ the color. But Tim…I can't pay for it."

"Happy Birthday," he said, screwed up his face as soon as he'd spoken. "When is your birthday?"

"December. You're late."

"We weren't dating then, so actually I'm early."

"Are we dating?"

"You know what I mean."

"It's too expensive for a birthday present."

"A guy at work picked it up for me at a Marshals auction. It hardly cost anything."

She looked doubtful. "For real?"

"For real."

She laughed then, ran a hand over the frame. "Then I gotta tell you, I love it. It's perfect. It's mine?"

"It's yours."

"You're awesome," and she bent over and kissed him again.

"Thanks for dinner," he said.

She smiled, rolled the bike over and set it against the wall. Dragging her fingers through his hair and down his back, she sat down beside him on the step while he finished eating, and he shared his beer with her.

* * *

 


	33. Chapter 33

* * *

Tim stood still on the front walk, stopping suddenly mid-stride, pulled out of his stampeding thoughts by the quiet that dropped a blanket onto his consciousness when he turned off his truck, and his music with it, and stepped outside into the suburban neighborhood. Max, the Florida swamp, Detroit, the bodies, highways and violence, all evaporated in an instant as the quiet caught his attention and held it. It always took him by surprise, those times when the sounds of the world, or sometimes the lack of sound, the silence, pulled him back to it, back to the earth and the now and the feel of his feet on the ground and the air around him. He became aware, unaware only a moment before, of the season change starting to show in the trees, the pleading call of a goldfinch from one of the shrubs in the garden surrounding the house, a breeze barely there, no voices, no phone ringing, no questions, no questioning.

The front door to the house he was standing in front of opened and Leslie smiled out of it at him. "Tim? Everything alright? You look like you've forgotten how you got here."

"Hey, Mrs. M." Tim looked up at her, then down at his feet, smiling subconsciously. "I'm just…noticing the quiet."

"It is quiet, isn't it?" She stepped out of the way to make room for Tim to pass her into the house, held the door open, inviting. "And that quiet you're hearing," she said as Tim took the hint and stepped onto the stoop and inside, "is Art _not_ asleep and snoring, and Art _not_ watching TV at his usual _loud,_ and Art _not_ sitting in the chair complaining about having to sit in the chair."

Tim grinned at the description. "Don't tell me you murdered him finally? You need help with the body?"

"Not yet, but you might get a call soon." She huffed out her exasperation. "So, you're an expert disposing of bodies, are you?"

She was teasing and Tim teased back, a serious and complicit expression, nodded knowingly. "You still got that wood chipper?"

"No, Art sold it." She shook her head, hard-worn patience. "It was difficult for him to admit that it was a silly thing to buy, but wonder of wonders, he came around."

"Did he get rid of that industrial strength pressure washer?"

"Oh, don't even go there. We still have that."

"So how's he doing?"

"Much better. He's in the garage cleaning his gun."

"Not with the pressure washer, I hope."

Leslie chuckled, "No. Funniest thing, he stood up from the table about half an hour ago and said, 'I'm going to clean my guns.'"

Tim's eyebrows responded quicker than his mouth. "Like that, is it?"

"Like that. I think that means you'll have him back soon. He's sharpening his saber." She waved him into the kitchen. "Bring your shoes along with you. The garage is a mess. He complains about being stuck in a chair but he doesn't feel well enough to sweep up the garage. I'll get you a beer and you can take one out for the bear too."

"I'm glad he's allowed one, especially since he's cleaning his gun."

Leslie chuckled, all warmth. "Only US Marshals seem to think that drinking and handling guns is safer than not drinking and handling guns."

"Depends on the amount of drinking."

"I'd like to know how accurately you all measure that after three or four." She handed him two cans of lite beer and patted his back as he turned to the entrance to the garage off the kitchen. "Sorry I can't offer you your usual – I'm not keeping regular beer in the house just now. I don't trust him, and he needs to lose a bit of weight."

"It's fine. I'm not complaining." The door swung open with a pull from Leslie, presenting a view of Art sitting at a workbench, oil and brush and a sidearm stripped in front of him. "Hey, Chief."

"Hey, back." Art set down the tool he was holding and stood up from his stool and Tim noticed how smoothly he could maneuver now, no grimace accompanying each movement. He accepted the beer and mimed Leslie's action, a pat on the back for the younger man. "And how's Tim today?" he said, sat again on his stool while Tim leaned against the bench, both pulling the tab on their cans at the same time and taking a sip.

"I'm fine, thanks. Life seems to be calming down a bit."

"Really? That's not what Rachel tells me. She says Vasquez and Boyd Crowder are keeping you guys hopping."

"That's work. I'm talking about my other life," said Tim, wondering if Rachel had kept from Art the fact that he'd missed two days without calling it in. Art made no mention of it, and it wasn't like him to pass up an opportunity to poke and lecture on miscreant behavior. Tim decided that maybe he didn't know Rachel as well as he thought he did.

"Oh, shit, right." Art snapped his fingers, as if remembering something, then rubbed at his head, an action so familiar that Tim found himself smiling at it. "I keep forgetting that we're supposed to have other lives than just work. I can't fit comfortably into mine. It feels like it's somebody else's, and I'm just minding the store for a few weeks."

"You miss the office."

"Shit, yeah. It picks at me every day, constant little reminders."

"Me, I'm having the opposite trouble. My other life keeps reminding me that it's there, and I can't pretend I don't notice it jumping up and down trying to get my attention, and I can't pretend it's not mine – it looks too familiar." Tim scrunched his face and tilted his head. "And nobody else would own it."

Art considered his deputy while he sipped at his beer. "What's happening with those murders? How's your friend doing?"

"I'll bet you already know from Rachel that I found Max this past weekend."

"Yep, she told me. What about the rest of it? Any luck finding your killers?"

Tim took another mouthful of beer, buying time to compose an answer, looked up and looked Art in the eye. "My friend in the FBI passed the information on to the Behavioral Sciences Unit. I guess the Feds are handling it. And I think you're right – there're definitely two of them."

Art sighed and set his beer down and folded his arms. "Tim, I know you know it's a common misconception that people who can look you straight in the eye when they answer a question aren't lying."

Tim looked away, then back. "What are you saying, Chief?"

"What I'm saying is – do you have something you need to say?"

"Yeah. When did you start drinking again and why wasn't I invited to the inauguration? And when are you coming back to work?"

The quiet returned, stretching out between them as Tim stood patiently and Art let his eyes wander his deputy's face, studying. Art's heavy breathing cut a rhythm through the softer exhales of the younger Marshal. Tim let it go on, waited it out. Art would never hear it from him, how the murder case was wrapped up, tarp and timing and luck, a willingness, a line blurring, disappearing, a few states traversed and a lot of miles on his truck. Tim's personal motivation to get involved was the only part that Art could possibly be privy to, acquainted as he was with the background story of the characters entangled in the events. Add to that what Art knew Tim might be provoked to do, and what he was capable of doing, and it would be enough to give him pause. It was a long pause, but Tim felt it wasn't worth interrupting, not with a denial or a confession. The pause had no teeth. Art couldn't know the truth. Not now, not ever.

The silence dragged on a bit longer than was comfortable and Tim wondered if maybe Rachel had mentioned the two lost days.

The finch started up again outside the garage, beseeching the world to listen.

"The two go hand in hand, it seems," said Art then, dropping the matter, answering Tim's easy questions instead of asking any hard ones himself. "I got off the pain killers and into the alcohol only this week," here he lifted his beer can to look at it, wrinkled his nose in disgust "– _lite,_ mind you – and it looks like I got the go ahead to come back to work next week. I'm going to start back half days, lift some of the administrative load from Rachel, take it from there. And there won't be an inauguration until I'm allowed to have bourbon."

"It'll be good to have you back."

"Uh-huh." Art looked ready to add something, but changed tack mid-breath, smiled. "Only because Rachel doesn't keep bourbon in her drawer. You staying for dinner?"

"Uh…"

"That's a _yes,_ and go get your girlfriend. Dinner can wait till you get back –" Art gestured at his task, his gun on the table. "– I still need to finish up. Leslie appreciates it when we don't talk about work every meal time. Jo will be a nice diversion for her."

Tim pulled his phone out to call Jo, changed his mind and turned and walked back into the house, into the kitchen to check with Leslie first about Art's offer.

* * *

Tim moved into Jo's half the house the next weekend and Jo moved her mosaic supplies into Tim's. Her side got the morning sun and she said it was a much nicer light than the afternoon sun since it went better with a morning coffee, so that decided the living situation. Tim didn't much care, didn't really have an opinion, and he liked her bed better anyway which made the move easy. He liked his TV better though so they swapped hers out and brought over his couch too, accompanied by some swearing and a good bit of laughter. Ky showed up during the shuffle, the couch halfway out the door, and lent his arms to the work, and then Ryan stopped in for the night, passing through on the way back from his mother's, conveniently after all the heavy lifting had been done, and he sat with them in the yard for a beer and some steak.

"I'm all for assisted suicide," said Ky into a lull in the conversation, just he and Tim and Ryan in the group at that moment, Jo having dashed into the house to use the bathroom. "I'm just putting it out there, you know, in case it's something one of you might feel strongly against and then it's a good thing to know before we get drunk."

Tim glanced sideways at Ryan, their eyes meeting briefly, an understanding.

Ryan spoke next, mock-serious tone. "I'm all for it too, especially when it's not _my_ assisted suicide we're talking about. I might have to take a different stance in that case. But all in all, if it alleviates suffering…" He waved his beer around dramatically.

"I know a lot of other people who feel exactly like I do," said Ky, a pointed look in Tim's direction.

Tim figured he'd close this particular discussion down quickly. "No more beer for either of you."

"You got something better?" said Ryan.

"You know what I got – you're always here fucking drinking it." Tim put up one finger, then another. "I got beer, and I got bourbon. Actually, I have two kinds of beer and I got bourbon. No, actually, I got two kinds of beer and three kinds of bourbon."

"Get your cheapest bourbon."

Tim stood up and nodded in Ky's direction. "You joining us?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

As Tim turned to head into the house, Ky said, "I just didn't think you were… You wouldn't think that… Well, you just don't look very dangerous, you know?"

Ryan sprayed a mouthful of beer onto the grass, laughing. "And you don't look like a fucking computer geek, you fucking computer geek."

Ky pouted, a convincing pout, said, "That hurts my feelings," and looked so ridiculous trying to appear injured that Ryan laughed harder.

Tim forgot about the bourbon, an idea instead getting his attention. The left side of his mouth tweaked a little, mischief tugging at it. A plan formulated and he stood staring at Ky until Ky shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

"I didn't mean anything by it," Ky said. "I'm just saying, you don't look dangerous, is all."

Tim nodded. "Whatever. I don't care. That's fine. I'm not dangerous if you're not dangerous. That's how it works." He ran a hand across his lips, still staring at Ky. "Ryan's right. You _don't_ look like a computer nerd, at least not any of the ones I work with."

"I suspect my office has a different dress code than yours."

"Yeah, I don't doubt that. Uh…can you hack into someone's bank accounts?"

"Depends."

"Depends on what?"

"Well, I'd need something to go on."

"Name, address, phone number?"

"That'd probably do it. Why?"

"There's this guy that did it to one of the Marshals in my office, emptied his bank account and froze his credit cards."

"Did he know he was doing it to a US Marshal?"

"Yep."

"Ballsy. You want me to get back at him?"

"Nah, he's in jail."

"Who then?"

The left side of Tim's mouth tweaked up again.

Ryan reminded Tim of his purpose in standing up, and Tim produced the promised cheap bottle of whiskey. The Rangers then introduced the biker computer nerd to the pleasures of bourbon, neat, and the three of them, amusing Jo, sang along with the music she had playing inside, joining their voices with the chorus,

" _And this is the sword I wield,  
And this is my battlefield,_

_Guess you've heard about it,_   
_Pissed off and mad about it,_   
_So let me scream and shout it,_   
_Pissed off and mad the fuck about it!"_

They took the party inside eventually, in consideration for the neighbors.

* * *

 


	34. Chapter 34

* * *

The United States Attorney's office wanted another subpoena delivered, this time to a guide with a different hunting outfit on the Tennessee side of the Georgia/Tennessee state line. The subpoena related back to the case involving the shooting of the game warden in Kentucky. The man was known to Heywood Humphrey, fingered by him. Heywood was suddenly becoming cooperative, downright talkative now that he found himself facing a long prison term. He confessed to perjuring himself in the first trial and hoped for leniency in the second. The prosecutor assured the Marshals Office, a growling Rachel in particular, that Humphrey wouldn't get much more than extra yard time out of it.

Tim didn't much care. He figured he'd be out of the state before Humphrey ever got released. Rachel offered to let him volunteer to deliver the subpoena in Tennessee and Tim jumped at the opportunity.

"You're not going alone this time," she said. "Art told me you went by yourself last time. Tim, that's just stupid."

"You're one to talk. Wasn't it you who got cornered by a dangerous fugitive one night a few months ago, didn't bother calling for back-up first?"

"I've learned better."

"When it works for you," Tim mumbled.

Rachel ignored him. "Don't go alone."

"Alright, I won't go alone. You want to come with me?"

"No."

Tim spent the afternoon considering and dismissing everyone in the bullpen as back-up for him. Nelson was top of his list of possibilities but the man looked so clean cut that Tim figured he was more of a neon LEO sign even than he was. He called and booked the guide for the following Saturday and decided to leave the choosing of a hunting partner until later.

Close of day brought some interesting drama to the bullpen. A security guard from downstairs and two officers and a detective from LPD Vice came in, took over the conference room. Art had been back a day, working afternoons only, and he took control, spoke with the visitors then called Chris in, one of the technical support staff, and shut the door.

Tim had never seen Chris, the tech dick, so animated – arms waving, face earnest, eyes moving restlessly up and down the row of law enforcement officers sitting across from him, each with a severe look, including Art, seated at one end, scowling. Tim repeated his thoughts aloud to Raylan who had walked over and was now leaning against Tim's desk, the two of them watching the goings-on in the conference room.

"Chris sure looks worked up about something."

"Maybe he thinks it's a job interview?" said Raylan, puzzled expression, then he chuckled, sipped at his coffee to cover up his amusement at the situation. "I can't believe he'd be stupid enough to have a pound of marijuana delivered to his place of work, especially since his place of work is the US Marshals Office in the Federal Court House."

"Is that what this is all about?"

"That's a good chunk of weed."

"I guess."

"I was talking with one of the security guards. They opened it when it was delivered downstairs – suspicious parcel, no return address, just a receipt with Chris's name on it. Apparently Chris paid for it with his credit card…online. "

"That is pretty stupid." Half of Tim's mouth frowned, joining Raylan in his disbelief; the other half crept up into a grin, a hint of the suppressed laughter that was constricting his chest. "Chris is a pothead? Who knew? I thought he was just a dick."

"I suspect it'll prove to be just a prank," said Raylan. "I'd be disappointed if Chris turned out to be interesting." He pushed off the desk and turned around to look at Tim, effectively blocking them both from the inquisition that Chris was currently facing. "Now, I'm trying to think – who would pull a prank like that?" The question came with liberal amounts of suspicion coating it, and a suspicious narrowing of the eyes just visible under the brim of his hat.

"What?" Tim shrugged, suddenly intensely interested in the contents of a file on the desk in front him, shoulders shaking silently.

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," said Tim, wiping his hand across his mouth to hide a blooming grin. "I just made a wish, Raylan."

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."

"You see a horse anywhere here?"

"Figuratively speaking, I think you're riding a pretty one right now. Whatever you did…" Raylan turned in the direction of the conference room again, smirked, turned back and started laughing too, quietly. "However you did it, I think it calls for a toast. Let's get outta here before this breaks up and Art stomps all over my good mood. Drink?"

Tim didn't need any more prompting, grabbed his keys and followed Raylan out to the bar.

* * *

"I can't make that shot," said the guide.

"Me neither," said Jack.

"I got no use for a hundred and fifty pounds of deer meat," said Tim, buck in the crosshairs. The day was warming up beautifully and he had shed his sweatshirt and was enjoying a bit of sunlight on his arms. His favorite rifle supported in a gloved hand, butt snug on his shoulder, he was happy to be outside doing what he did best. "I don't have a freezer."

"You can make that shot?"

"Yep."

"Well, shit, then I know guys who'd be happy to take the meat, butcher it proper and give you and Jo what you want from it." Jack Emmery had Tim's newer rifle, peered through the scope across the open field to the flesh they were discussing. "You sure you don't wanna use this rifle? You didn't have to give me the new one."

"I'm sure. This one here's my baby. You can't have her." Tim grimaced when he considered how that might be misinterpreted by the man sitting beside him with a loaded rifle, Jo's daddy.

"Do you ever think before you speak?" The Harley voice fitted surprisingly well into the surrounding woods and fields.

"Apparently not. Do you want the deer meat?"

"Hell, yes. Besides, I wanna see you make this shot."

Tim settled his breathing, his shoulders, his hands. The positioning of each part of his body, the rhythms of his lungs and heart, the smells, the familiarity of the diameter of the forestock in the grip of his left hand, the feel of the cloth of his glove between the finger of his right hand and the trigger, and the wood of the stock smooth against his face just under the cheek bone, eye on the scope, the confidence in a routine well worn into a familiar groove, round chambered, rifle ready, everything, all of it together, was calming, deeply comforting, so much so that Tim took a breath or two to stretch out the moment, not to adjust his aiming, just enjoying before he pulled.

Heading leisurely toward the tree line on the other side of the field where the buck fell, the three men strolled through the tall grass, brown tops bending and breaking, stiff holdovers from last season. The day was too nice to hurry and so they didn't, talking amiably about hunting and shooting. Jack had his rifle, the one he'd borrowed from Tim, leaning on his shoulder; Tim had his slung in the front by a shoulder strap, barrel pointed down, away from the men he was walking with, hands resting comfortably over the stock, his right hovering near the trigger guard; their guide, the man enjoying a pleasant morning, unaware of the subpoena in Tim's pocket, had his rifle slung over his back. The guide was doing most of the talking, Jack a little winded with the exercise, Tim too relaxed to bother keeping it up.

When they reached the buck, lying still, a clean kill, Jack stood looking down at it. "You know what Jo would say about this?" he said, turning to look at Tim, no threat in his expression. "She'd say there's art in it."

"Yeah, she would."

They waited until the carcass was secured in the bed of the truck before Tim served the subpoena, Jack standing behind him and to the right, rifle in his hand now.

"Did you have to be a US fucking Marshal?" Jack said later, when they were on the road back to Lexington.

"Probably not," said Tim. "But I'm good at it."

* * *

"So, you moved in with her?"

"Yep."

"She still likes you then?" Max squinted over his eggs at Tim, his eyes bloodshot and disbelieving.

"Apparently." Tim's eyes didn't look much better, red-rimmed, cheap whiskey and four-in-the-morning whites, deadpanned over the remains of greasy hash browns and a lonely strip of overcooked bacon. He frowned at his friend, the one with little faith in his abilities to keep a girl, then reached for his coffee mug and thought irritably about his drive home and wondered briefly if Max maybe knew something he didn't about his Jo, or women in general. "I'm not all that bad," he said, sounding like a peevish teenager.

Max jabbed a dirty finger on the dirty table. "You're here visiting with me on a Friday night…"

"Saturday morning," Tim corrected, checking his watch.

"Whatever. So, you're here visiting me on the fucking weekend, right? _The weekend._ And she's still putting up with you? What's wrong with her?"

"She had things to do. She's busy. She's got her own life." Tim chewed on the bacon while he chewed on Max's questions. He thought some more about Jo. Yes, Jo was still putting up with him. It surprised him because he didn't seem to be putting any effort into the relationship yet she seemed happy with it, with him, and she'd been easy about seeing him head to Atlanta while she stayed to finish the last of the grouting on the mosaic this weekend. He had a tile order for her in his back pocket – he promised he'd stop on his way out Sunday.

"She wasn't mad?"

"No, Max, she wasn't mad."

"Are you sure she's not a guy? Did you check the parts?"

"What is your problem? Be happy for me. Maybe it's just a good thing we've got going. Maybe it's not meant to be a fight all the time." The truth of it hit him as he said it. How many girls had it taken for him to figure it out?

"I'm just fucking with you. Calm down." Shoveling in some eggs, Max kept at him. "Maybe she's an alien."

"Pretty sure she's not."

"North Korean mole?"

"Her eyes are the wrong color."

"Walking dead?"

"Too warm, and she doesn't bite, least not in a bad way, and she smells too nice. And she can't possibly be after my money. I haven't got much."

"So she's desperate."

"Fuck off."

They were both chuckling now and the waitress smiled at them when she came by to refill the mugs.

Max was present tonight – on an extended vacation from crazy town – more so than Tim had seen him in a while. And it was nice. He had missed the irreverent and lucid discussions, replaced in the last few months with increasingly hostile and paranoid talk that Tim hadn't felt a part of, only a witness to. He had missed his friend during that time – he hadn't realized how much.

"She'll be there when you get back?"

"Yes," said Tim patiently, "she'll be there when I get back."

"You're sure?"

"Max, fuck off. She's cool about it. In fact, she made it clear that she doesn't want a…" He sat back and wiped his greasy fingers on a paper napkin. "She said none of that – how did she put it? – none of that 'to have and to stranglehold' bullshit. That's what she said."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"Shit. Really?"

"Yep."

"I like the sounds of her."

"She's taken."

"Only 'cause she hasn't met me yet. Heh, heh."

The smile accompanying the statement was disarmingly insane, but the idea brought a similar grin to Tim's face.

"Why don't I bring her down to meet you sometime? We can test your charms then."

"You'd do that? You'd bring your girlfriend _here?_ Nice date. What an asshole."

Looking around, Tim decided, yes, here. It wasn't difficult picturing her in this diner. She'd find something beautiful about it. She had managed to find something beautiful about him – at least, he figured she must have since she seemed agreeable to keeping him without any remodeling involved. "Jo? Yeah. I'd bring her here, introduce you. Or maybe we should meet someplace different if you think she'd contaminate our fancy diner."

The prospect of meeting Tim's girlfriend seemed to unnerve Max, he hunched a little, became interested in his toast. "I'd have to, you know, clean up a bit first. You'd warn me, right? Give me the heads up if you brought her?"

The idea that Max would care enough to fuss caught Tim by surprise and he felt badly for his friend, leaned forward and patted Max's arm, to put him at ease. "You got nothing to worry about. She'd think you were pretty cool. It's all good. You don't know her. She told me she wants to meet you."

The toast was still fascinating. Max played with it for a good while then took a large bite, aggressive, and his eyes darted around the room while he chewed and swallowed. "I told the Lieutenant that I wanted you on my team next time…next time I get sent out. I got some time though, some stuff I gotta do here before I go back."

Tim nodded, watching Max fidget with his fork. "Sounds good, buddy. You done with your food? Want to head outside, take a walk?"

"Yeah, I need to check on my stuff." Max was looking intently at the door, running his hand back and forth along the table top.

"Go ahead," said Tim, gesturing with his chin. "I'll catch up."

Max hesitated, shook his head back and forth slowly, said in a whisper, "They can't find him, right? I mean, they won't find him?"

A quick glance around the diner to reassure himself that no one could overhear this particular bit of talk, and Tim leaned forward over the table and kept his voice low and said, "It's unlikely. It's not like people stroll those areas. I think we're good."

Max mirrored Tim's behavior, head down and forward, voice down too. "I fucked up, Tim. I know, and I don't want to get you into trouble. I didn't mean to get you into trouble – you know that, right? – not now when you got a girl and everything, and it's looking up, right?"

"I won't get in any trouble." Tim smiled, considered the future. "And besides, I think she'd come visit me in prison."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Don't worry about it. Max, the guy deserved what he got. Go on. I'll meet you outside."

Max was up and gone before Tim had his wallet out. Every movement that Max made to clear the diner and get out the door was quick, silent, easy, an impressive store of strength in each action, and Tim, watching him, figured the second killer didn't stand a chance once Max got him in his sights. There would have been no time to adjust his thinking, correct the mistaken assumptions. Too bad for him, the corpse now lying in a swamp in Florida.

Next time Tim came down to visit Max, he decided, he was going to bring Jo. Then he grinned, thinking he'd invite Ryan to join them. _This is Batman,_ he'd say, when he introduced Max to his buddy. _And you, asshole, are Robin._

* * *

xxxxxxxxx

The End


End file.
